Stone Heart
by Dust Traveller
Summary: A different Azarath, one in which the priests walked with cold steel in hands, hearts, and eyes. The last of these Gunslingers makes his way across the veil of worlds to fulfill an Oath to the mother of one Rachel Roth, also known as Raven...
1. A Knight Without Armor

A/N: Those of you who follow my stories from genre to genre will of course, by now, be getting used to this. I make no excuses, I know its a crappy thing to do. Switching from one story to another willy nilly. I can only lay the blame at the feet of my particularly whimsical muse. 

I have a confession to make. I write fanfiction because I enjoy doing so, of course, but I also write fanfiction so I can sleep.

Sound strange? Allow me to elaborate. Sometimes a dream will strike me. A strange, powerful, vivid dream about some fandom to which I feel a distinct empathy for. Every single one of my fanfics start this way. I wake up from this dream in a wistful state of sadness... because for me, the story is over. The beautiful, perfect story is done. Oh it's still there, locked in my head, and some times I can revisit it, on rare occasions when my sleeping mind reattaches itself to the idea, but for all intents and purposes I will never see it again.

That idea in my head, it whirls around and around, gaining strength, gaining reality, until my hands are aching to put it on the screen. To share my dream with you, dear readers, because the only way the story will live is if I put it there.

So here we have before you, Stoneheart. My translation of this dream is a strange one, because I've recently started rereading Stephen King's The Dark Tower, with it's Gunslinger Roland, and I've started playing an tabletop RPG called Cold Steel Reign, which has it's own class of Gunslinger, no less mystical and magical than those of Roland's creed.

I got to thinking about this, as I struggled to translate my dream, and it came to me... Raven seldom if ever speaks of long lost Azarath, of her past there. I can understand why. What if her mother, and priests as WE understand priests weren't the ones who taught her how to focus her mind, suppress emotions, and create the Mental Fields.

After that, it was only a matter of time. The Apocryphal Knights and the Spirit Caste are a mixture of Stephen King's imaginings as well as ideas shamelessly stolen from Cold Steel Reign, along with a few ideas of my own creation. Simon of course, is my own creation, and I hope he fits in alright.

Disclaimer: I don't know what pairings will appear in the story, but it will be extremely Raven-centric. She's my favorite character in the series, and if that upsets you, I apologize. There are a thousand awesome stories that focus on all of the Titans equally... Post's These Black Eyes and Lord Belgarion's Titan's Song are two very fine entries that come to mind. This entry will be my attempt, however feeble, to join the ranks of these two vaunted Titans authors, my entry into the scary and perilous world that is the original character addition to the Titans ranks type story. There have been triumphs, and there have been tragedies, from those who make the attempt, but I am not afraid.

I hope my meager talents will be enough to carry the story on its own fuckin' merits.

Now, one last thing before we get into this tale. Please read the song qoute below, as it has much meaning and significance. Where as the singer in this song refers to the Dark Tower, the intent from the perspective of this story refers to a slightly different tower...

* * *

"Songs to sing... Song of Turtle, and the Cry of the Bear. Awake... I can sense it, still I'm afraid. Tower Road lies ahead. Commala-come-ka. Ka has come to me. Grey old fellow, if you finally failed the test what would it mean? We're getting near. We're getting near. Maid of sorrow, your time goes by... Fade away, fade... "Say thank, ya" for the beams are safe my friend. Long days and pleasant nights for you. Save me! The final chord, don't let it end like this. No, not like this. Tell me, when things were finally getting out of hand. It's out of hand. Entangled, I am captured. You have put a spell on me. The last in line, the Gunslinger's line. The sacrifice of innocence. This work needs to be done. Now blow the horn, hail to the gun! Done is done! Yes, there will be no taking back. Every journey must come to an end. All hail to the Gunslinger, praise to the Dinh and the King. Beyond our reach, out of control. Save me! To touch the rose it will not bring release, no taking back. Come save me. There are other worlds. But surely none like this, the world has changed. Done is done! Yes, there will be no taking back. The word is the law, law is Ka. The end of the road lies. Straight ahead it lies, I'm feeling pure. The end of the road lies... The sacrifice of innocence. The hailing of the gun. My way was death and madness. Now let the tower come. Done is done! Yes, there will be no taking back. Every journey must come to an end. All hail to the Gunslinger, praise to the Dinh and the King. Beyond our reach, out of control..." -The Gunslinger, Demons and Wizards

The battlefield was set, the lines drawn, the players all in place. The prize, this evening's destiny, was at stake. Beast Boy and Starfire were firmly entrenched on one side, demanding a Comedy, while Robin and Cyborg had taken their customary places firmly on the side of the Action flick.

Raven, as usual, headed up the neutral side of the conflict, having found her own entertainment elsewhere. As if to firmly set this decision in mind, she steadfastly ignored the clamour around her, pointedly turning the next page of her horror novel.

Beast Boy took aim, hoping through sheer perserverance and tenacity he might weaken his implacable foes' resolve. This tactic had worked in the past, mainly because his enemies, tired of hearing him complain, would give him his way.

"Look, nobody wants to watch a damn action movie... our LIFE is like an action movie... don'tcha wanna laugh?"

Cyborg crossed his metal arms, his face sternly set. He prepared the next offensive, seeing the weak link on his enemies lines as the one with the sense of fair play, the ever cheerful Starfire.

"Look, its real simple. The last movie we watched was a comedy, so this week, we watch an action flick. I don't see why we're still arguing about this."

Starfire blinked, then looked somewhat shame faced. "That is true... but-"

Robin, sensing a wavering of their enemies resolve, sneakily pressed the attack.

"Come on, Starfire... it's only fair... and I promise we'll pick something with Val Kilmer in it."

Her eyes lit up at the mention of one of her favorite actors. She gave Beast Boy an apologetic look. "Sorry, Friend Beast Boy... I must side with Val-... I mean friends Robin and Cyborg."

Beast Boy put his head in his hands and groaned. "Curse you, Kilmer! Curse youuuu!"

Robin, Cyborg and Starfire went over the selection of movies while Beast Boy sulked. After a moment the three teens managed to make a selection and presented the movie to Beast Boy. He brightened slightly at the title.

"Hey... Tombstone... that's a good one. It's been a while since we saw a western."

"Alright! Let's get this party started!" Cyborg cheered.

"I will procure the corn of popping and the mustard!" Starfire announced happily, while Robin, BB and Cyborg sweatdropped.

Raven closed her book and got up off of her comfy chair, heading towards the elevator without a word.

Robin blinked, the only one who saw her start to leave. "Hey... Raven, where are you going?"

"My room." She replied in her typical monotone.

Cyborg stopped cheering at looked at her. "But Rae... we're gonna watch-"

"I don't like westerns." She interrupted. "And I'm tired. Enjoy your movie."

Any further protest was cut off by the elevator opening and shutting around her.

The Robin, BB, and Cyborg blinked at one another in bemused confusion.

"What was that all about?" Cyborg muttered.

"I guess her Gothness isn't a fan of the cowboys." BB mused.

"Hey, cut it out, BB. Raven's just..." Robin frowned, looking for the right word. "Different. That's all."

"You can say that again." Cyborg added.

"Friends, I bring exploded corn kernals and delicious condiments!" Starfire blinked, coming to a halt. "Did I miss something?"

The other three were quick to refute her, and their evening of Old West goodness began.

* * *

She found meditation impossible.

Entering the Mental Fields was normally an effortless practice for her. She hardly ever needed the mirror anymore. Today, however, the fields would not come to her, her Ka was unfocused, scattered and purposeless.

She sighed and opened her amethyst eyes. An outside observer would notice that she was not focused on the world around her, rather, she was focused on a world long past. Her friends would be worried about her, she knew. She'd been somewhat rude in her retreat. Of course she couldn't tell them why she disliked Western movies.

They hit a little too close to home.

Home of course, being long lost Azarath.

-There's no point in dwelling on it.- She berated herself. -What's gone is gone.-

Still, the thoughts would not leave her be.

She was homesick.

* * *

-Ten years ago, in a place lost forever-

She concentrated, weaving the rounded stone between her fingers. Her eyes were closed, her mouth slightly open as she concentrated on reaching out, focusing her Ka, making them the vehicle of her entrance to the Mental Fields.

A voice shook her slightly, her fingers faltered. She did not lose the stone, but her teacher was experienced enough to catch her mistake.

"Angel... you must focus. Ka is law, and law is order. Your thoughts must be ordered to enter the Fields."

"I am trying, Brother Simon. It's not easy." She countered, slight irritation in her voice.

"Anger is counter to balance, Angel. Focus is needed."

"I understand Brother Simon." She did try, she really did. Of course, her training was odd. It did not come naturally to her, who's mother was the most powerful of the Spirit caste. Rachel Roth, daughter of Arella, had no choice in the matter however, as the unique training of the Apocryphal Knight caste was of the utmost importance to her, and subsequently, her world's, wellbeing. So she found herself learning the way of the Ka, and the opening of the Mental Fields.

She dropped the rounded stone and lowered her hands in disappointment, opening her eyes to stare at Simon with the abject misery only an eight year old denied can produce.

"I can't do it. I just wasn't meant to do it, Simon."

The young Apocryphal Knight raised one silver eyebrow, his arms crossed, his position one of extreme relaxation, at least, to one unfamiliar with the Gunslingers. A Gunslinger was never at rest, rather, he was a coiled spring, or more aptly, a cocked hammer. Her eyes fell on the tools of his trade, the beautiful and ornate Sacred Guns on each hip, their runes and swirling, artful etching gleaming in the late morning sunlight. There was an air of danger to him, to all of them, and yet Rachel was not afraid.

She had lived amongst the Gunslingers her whole short life.

Simon more than most.

She was far more mature than most gave her small, fragile frame credit for. She could not be expected to understand what a burden her lessons must have been on the young Knight, himself only recently released from his Apprenticeship, yet understand she did. She knew he had better things, more important duties than the minding of a single, half Tainted little girl.

Yet mind her he did.

He did because Arella had ordered it so, through the medium of Brother Gideon, and the First Gun was not to be disobeyed, certainly not by a fledgling Knight who had only recently earned his red gauntlet. When the child was placed into Simon's care, he had admirably suppressed his own irritation at the burden, although he had to have been at least somewhat upset. As an Apocryphal Knight it was his duty to seek out a Spirit Guide amongst the Spirit Caste, one to whom he would be bound and to whom he would confess his sins, and be absolved or given penance. Like his matched set of Sacred Guns, without a match among the Spirit Caste he was Ka unfocused, a set of Guns without a cause.

Still, the duty was not so bad. Despite her father's blood, Rachel was a remarkably consciencous child. Though the burdens laid upon her were many, she had endured them all without complaint or shirking. Her determination not to give into her origins both awed and shamed him. He resolved that he could do no less, and so their association had begun.

He knelt down in front of her and picked up the stone she had dropped. "Do you know why the stone is a part of the exercise, Angel?" His pale blue eyes focused on her amethyst ones, and she found herself drawn into them.

"No..."

He dropped the stone into her palm and presented his own gauntleted hands, one red, the other black. Loops adorned the backs of his hands, a double set of loops at the base of each gauntlet, ringing them. Each loop held a single bullet, their brass casings winking slightly in the sunlight. He crossed his hands, one over the other, his long fingers working dextrously, inhumanly fast, and shells began to empty from the loops, three from the gauntlet beneath into the opposite fingers, a bullet between each set of fingers, index and middle, middle and ring, ring and pinkie. The gauntlets crossed again, this time the other hands set of fingers took three bullets. Her eyes widened as she watched the strange procession of bullets dancing in his fingers, twisting and turning, the light dancing off the brass. It was hypnotizing, watching them move in an endless circle between his hands as they weaved back and forth, his hands crossing one over the other each time.

She felt herself being drawn into them, all the frustration, the doubt and annoyance at being unable to reach the fields slowly leaking away, until...

She widened her eyes. "I can see it..."

"What do you see?" He whispered.

"I see the Ka... I see them, my emotions..."

"You look upon the Mental Fields, little Angel." His voice had the faint air of pride to it. "Perhaps all you need is focus. I will talk with your mother about constructing a Charm you might use to aid you, until you can reach the Fields on your own."

She wrinkled her nose slightly in distaste. "You don't need a Charm."

He chuckled slightly. "I have been trained in this matter since I could hold stones in my hands, Angel. I have the advantage of time on you."

"Did you drop the stones?" She asked, curiously.

"Of course. Many times." He sighed at the memory, his face twisting with sardonic humor. "Many more times than my Master wished I would. I have a hard head you see Angel, and it took him a long time to pound the lessons into me."

She blinked, trying to imagine the reserved and composed Brother Simon dropping a stone and receiving a clout on the head for it. She found herself suppressing a smile at the thought.

"Hmm... yes, it is funny. Fortunately your head is not so hard. The lessons soak in easily, eh?" He chuckled slightly at her displeased expression.

"My head is NOT soft!"

Simon's grin disappeared suddenly, his face went still.

Caught up in her annoyance, it took her a moment to catch his change of expression, but when she did, her breath caught in her throat.

"Simon... what..."

"Shh, Angel..." He whispered, standing slowly.

Then she heard it, a distant pealing, like a mournful sigh ringing out over the valleys and hills. She felt the blood drain from her face.

"The Bell..." She whispered.

"Aye." He was also pale, but grim as death. He took her hand quickly, startling her. In that sudden contact her empathy connected them, she could feel his suppressed fear, as well as a strange desperation and fierceness.

"Come, little Angel. We must fly."

They ran quickly down the hillside, her small feet unable to keep up with his loping, booted strides. She started to trip, a slighly squeak of dismay escaping her. In response he picked her up in his arms, before she could fall, cradling her against his chest as he ran. The scents she associated with him, leather, oil, steel, gunpowder and horse reached her nostrils. She suppressed the urge to sneeze.

His heart thundered with a terrible rhythm, fast and sure, in anticipation of what was to come.

The Mourner's Bell tolled for only one event, had only one purpose. The Veil of Worlds was being sundered.

Her father was coming.

They reached his snow white horse, then. She looked up from her grazing and flicked her ears at him as he approached, whickering slightly as he came near. She could sense something was wrong, and it made her slightly skittish. He calmed her with meaningless words, setting Rachel upon his saddle carefully before vaulting up into the saddle himself.

"Ayah!" He barked, his hands on the reins, his body crouched over Rachel protectively.

The horse bolted forward, spurred by his actions, and the pair of them thundered down the rocky path that lead up to their secluded hill. The trees flew past in blurs of green, and she found herself becoming slightly frightened. Simon was pushing his mount hard, their speed was dangerous. One misstep or miscalculation on his or his mount's part, and the two of them would be dashed to ribbons.

The white towers of Azarath appeared before them with sickening haste, growing larger on the horizon as they neared. The midday sun had faded, growing red and cold as they moved. With horror, Rachel watched as a darkness appeared on the far horizon, a sickening, oily, oozing shadow that blackened the sky and turned the day into a sort of uneasy twilight. The citizens of Azarath looked with fear to the sky, to the coming of Wrath. As Simon and his ward approached with a thundering of hooves they parted like startled chickens, darting out of the way of the fast approaching Knight.

They reached the Temple gates, and the Apocryphal Knights on guard there took one look at Simon thundering close then opened the gates with haste, pale and worried faces streaking past as they darted through the gates. He practically threw the two of them off his horse, tossing the reins carelessly to a stablehand who stumbled close. She stumbled along with him, his grip on her small hand almost painfully tight.

His heavy boots made distinct clapping noises as he moved purposefully through the shining marble halls of her home, the Temple of Spirit.

They burst into the main hall and Rachel's eyes widened at the sight of so many Apocryphal Knights. The dark clothed, deadly looking Knights, male and female knelt as one in a line, their gauntlets crossed at the wrist, gun barrels against each shoulder. Among them moved those Spirit Caste who'd been paired with each Knight. Whispered conversations, confessions of sin and fear along with the comfort that only a Spirit Caste can provide came from each pair.

They were preparing for war.

At the head of these the grizzled and imposing form of Brother Gideon, First Gun of the Apocryphal Knights, rose from his own kneeling position, turning easily, his one chocolate brown eye searching out over his gathered Brothers and Sisters. At his side stood the white robed form of Rachel's mother, her face full of barely hidden fear and no small amount of sadness. She brightened slightly when she caught sight of the pair of them.

"Simon! Thank the gods you have arrived..." She started.

Simon stopped and knelt. "Forgive my absence, First Gun. I came as soon as I heard the Bell."

Arella knelt with Rachel, taking her in her arms. "Are you alright, Rachel? I was worried."

"I'm fine, mother. Brother Simon was riding so fast, please don't be angry at him. I was the one who wanted to get away from everything."

Gideon and Arella shared a glance born of shared intimacy and long association. Gideon shook his head easily. "What is done is done. There is no time for recriminations or accusations any longer. We must hurry. Wrath draws closer, even now the skies darken. We Gunslingers must prepare the defense."

Simon nodded resolutely, sparing no further time on apologies. He stood easily, turning to leave Rachel to her mother.

Arella quickly handed Rachel to another waiting Priest, the elderly fellow leading her away down the corridor, despite her protests. Her cries began to get slightly desperate, and Arella shushed her with a single pained glance.

"Rachel, go with Thaddeus and hush now... I will be along shortly. We must prepare."

"But-"

"Listen to your mother, Angel." Simon said sharply, his tone stopping Rachel's protests. Arella and Gideon shared another glance, this one full of pain and no small amount of regret and sadness. Rachel soon disappeared from view.

"Simon..." Arella's whisper caught his ears as he began to join the ranks of the Apocryphal Knights, he stopped and turned slightly, blinking his confusion.

"Yes Priestess?"

"I am sorry we left you no time to be shriven, young Gunslinger. It was a terrible thing for us to have done. I had hoped..." She sighed. "It matters not. Kneel, Sir Knight."

He choked slightly, looking at Gideon with a slightly pained expression. "Priestess, I cannot... Brother Gideon is.."

Gideon shook his head slowly, his mustache twitching slightly as he spoke. "Do as she says, boy. Now is not the time for propriety. There will be no other time."

Simon chewed on this for a moment, considering what was happening, then obedience long ingrained in him forced him to his knees. He bowed his head, his Sacred Guns crossing in the age old position of confession.

"Forgive me, Priestess, for I have known fear and pride. My arrogance knows no bounds, that I tried to teach the Mental Fields to one of the high caste."

"You did so under our instruction, Brother. There is no sin in obedience. What is your fear?"

He paused a moment, his eyes closed with pain. "I fear death, mistress. I fear for Azarath. I fear the coming of Wrath."

She sighed. "All men fear, Simon. We strive to rise above it. Recite the Litany of the Gun, once, and be forgiven.

He nodded dutifully and proceeded to recite, his voice strong and sure with the long practiced words.

"Wage war against Tyrants, so people are free to make of themselves what they will."

"At all times, protect your Brethren. Honor them, aid them, bury them under the blessed rites as you can, avenge their deaths where you can, as you can. Deliver their guns to their apprentices or masters, that they may continue to aid the cause."

"Let all who are to die by your hand, sense clearly their death in you. Do not kill from hiding; do not shoot someone in the back, who was not first facing you."

"Grant mercy to the meek."

"Grant death to those who ask it of you."

"Suffer no soul to live beyond its body. Suffer no body to live beyond its soul."

"Avenge your own dishonor."

"Should any one of your Brethren fall, and turn against you, destroy them without delay."

"Do not fall willingly into death, but do not crawl from death for the pleasure of others."

Arella nodded quietly, her voice now hoarse with emotion. She knew what was to come, they all did. All they could do was buy time.

"Rise shriven, Gunslinger. Your conscience is clean."

He stood quietly, holstering his guns and raising the hood of his cloak as he did so. They were all in positions of such waiting, the Gunslingers filing out of the main hall into the streets of Azarath.

Arella and Gideon looked at one another as Simon rose, so many things unsaid between them. Wordlessly she began to cry, tears sliding down her cheeks. Gideon stepped close impulsively and she hugged him, the two of them caught up in emotions they had suppressed for so long.

Simon's eyes widened at the display, then he turned away, the line of his jaw clenched slightly. It was not unheard of for pairs to harbor such feelings for one another, but it was frowned upon. It clouded purpose and scattered Ka. Out of respect for the two highest of their respective orders, he politely ignored them until they could regain their composure from their lapse.

"Arella..." Gideon started.

"I know." She whispered.

He released her then and stepped back, his eye slightly misted. "Keep her safe, Arella. Send her away. I swear upon my guns that we will fight to the last man. If all that we can provide you is time this day, then you shall have all of it that you need."

She nodded, turning quickly lest he see her stricken expression. Gideon watched her disappear before turning to Simon, pulling his own cloak up as well.

"Are you prepared, Brother?" Simon asked as Gideon passed, matching his leaders strides easily.

"No." He said gruffly. "Nothing could have prepared any of us for this. I will do what must be done."

Simon nodded, his own heart full of sadness and tension.

They did not look back.

* * *

The citizens of Azarath watched as the procession of Gunslingers filed among them, their booted feet filling the air with the sound of purpose. Several of the citizens bowed, whispering prayers for the resolute defenders as they silently made their way to the great steps which lead to the gates of Azarath. A cold wind tugged at their cloaks, and several shrieked exhultations of fear and pleas for aid in this dark hour from the terrified citizenry tore at all of them. For centuries the Apocryphal Knights had defended this city against all who would move against her.

Centuries of honor and pride, and the spilling of blood. All of it coming to this last desperate stand.

They formed ranks, tiered by the very nature of the steps upon which they stood. The gates creaked behind them, then clanged shut with terrible finality. The shadows grew long, the grey, unnatural twilight widened into dark pitch. A shadow crept closer, a tide of darkness, and red eyes watched them from it.

Simon stood next to Gideon on the last tier, flexing his hands slightly. He narrowed his eyes at the half formed demons that roiled in that cloud of ink approaching, flashes of red lightning appearing in the distance, as more terrible horrors advanced behind the tide.

No words were spoken, and yet as one the Gunslingers threw back their hoods, their hands waiting inches from the holstered instruments of death at their hips. As one they waited, each face, old or young, scarred or fair, male or female, was alike in their resolution.

The city would not fall. They would hold it up on their shoulders. The city would stand.

They would not abide its fall.

The first shrieking, howling wave of monsters errupted from the gloom, tearing across the distance in frightening leaps and bounds. As one the sound of a thousand guns sliding clear of well oiled leather errupted, hands coming into a cross at the wrist, guns pointed at the first tide of Hate.

The sound of angels clashing. Of thunder booming, the war cry of an angry god. The guns errupted as one, fire and smoke blasting forth.

The first wave of demons faltered, then shattered, thrown back to be torn to shreds as the next wave cut through them in their haste to reach mortal flesh. Black blood spilled upon the white marble, staining it with pools of inky darkness.

The hail of fire never ended, as they began the dance of bullets through their fingers, their hands coming in that weaving dance that Simon had shown Rachel earlier, its true purpose coming clear. Fingers removed empty shells and replaced them with fresh shells plucked from the gauntlet loops, then into the guns, thumb and trigger finger emptying them as they crossed again. Spent shells rained down with a merry tinkling noise at their booted feet, and smoke rose slowly from their ranks, obscuring them save for the flashes announcing the new bits of lead being added to the fray.

The demons fell, the tide faltered, but the press of bodies thrust them closer and closer. The first rank was reached, and now the screams of men and woman joined the wails of the Damned. The tidy, even ranks of the Gunslingers became a chaos of men and women whirling and dancing, firing as targets came upon them, or striking with the butt of a gun here and there as the enemy came too close. Unstoppable they were, gods among men, and yet they were only human, only mortal. Here and there a brother or sister fell beneath the ravening horde, their cries mercifully short as their lives were ripped from them.

Still the guns blazed, the screams continued. The line held.

Rapidly the loops emptied of bullets, those on the back lines paused now to reach for the bullets on their belts, rapidly filling the loops on their gauntlets. Those beneath them, unable to spare a moment from the slaughter, were forced to turn to hand to hand, gun becoming a different kind of weapon. The heavy single action revolvers fell like clubs, the butt of them smashing limbs and skulls, booted feet twisting and turning, arching up to strike and kill, every body part, elbows, knees, foreheads, everything becoming something with which to draw blood, with which to kill. They twisted, they danced, they laid about them with righteous fury, teeth bared, eyes flashing.

They screamed, they bled, they fell.

The first rank disappeared, then the second, then the third. The invaders were halfway up the step, and Gideon and Simon found themselves cut off from the rest, back to back, one reloading as the other danced around him, his own guns blazing, barrels near glowing from the heat. A circle appeared around them, a wall of dead, two, and then three, and then four bodies deep.

Their Brethren slowly fell, but the First Gun and the least of their Order stood resolute, turning, twisting, guns blazing, death flying.

The press slowed, and then stopped. They stood side by side, chests heaving, surrounded by demons, the smoke oozing in almost palpable streams from the barrels of their pistols.

A cracking sound caught their attention. The demons faces twisted in terror and panic, scattering away from the doom amongst them.

Someone was clapping.

They turned together and saw what was before them. A towering red figure, four gleaming eyes staring down at them, mouth twisted in a mockery of humour. His clawed hands came together in a mocking salute of their skill and bravery.

"Well done, little gunmen. I see that peace has not erroded the skills honed in my first attempt. I am pleased that my absence has not turned the wolves to sheep."

Gideon focused his one burning eye on the Demon Lord and scowled. "Did you think Azarath would forget you, Demon? She stands proud, to spite you. Turn away or be destroyed."

The demon's four eyes widened and his mouth split into a nasty grin.

"Gideon, you still draw breath? How unlikely, old man. It has been a long time. How is Arella... does she talk about me often?"

Gideon's face went pale and his drew his lips back in a silent snarl. "She has forgotten you, Demon. Your filth could not touch her. She remains pure."

Trigon raised one eyebrow and sardonically chuckled. "Heh. I saw the gleam in your eye, mortal, when you looked upon her. Her purity is something of a lost cause, I'd wager, and it was not I who sullied her most, I think."

Gideon growled, and Simon stared up defiantly, his pistols pointed at the demons face. "Spare us your lies, Father of Wrath. You will find nothing but death here."

Trigon chuckled, unmoved by their defiance. "Oh I agree young wolfling... I forsee much... Death... in the coming hours. The hour of man has faded, Gunslingers. Lower your weapons and I shall grant you a quick and merciful passing. I am late for my daughter's birthday, and it's not right for a daddy to disappoint his little girl."

Simon lost it then, the hammers of his weapons coming back. "Filth! She's nothing LIKE you. Curse you, Wrathbringer!" His guns roared defiant counterpoint to his words, his face lit by the fires of his weapons and the fury he felt. The bullets slammed into Trigun's face, bouncing off and whistling in random directions as they struck. The demon recoiled slightly at the impact, not truely hurt, but stung nonetheless. He roared.

"Impertinance! I will destroy you!"

"Simon! We must buy time! Do not-" Gideon shrill cry came too late, and was broken up by the roar.

Seeing the time for words slip through their fingers, Gideon gritted his teeth and turned his own guns to the demon, letting fly with his own barrage. The demon twisted away from these bullets, roaring and bring one massive fist up, smashing it down at the pair. They danced away, whirling in opposite directions as the mass of demonic flesh shattered the steps on which they stood, sending slivers of marble scattering outward. Simon darted forward, his booted feet nimbly dancing up the demon's arm, his guns flaring as he moved, until he was practically on the demons shoulder firing both weapons into his face. From these blows the demon bled slightly, his mouth open in a roar of anger.

The demon reached up and caught the squirming Gunslinger in one clawed hand, shaking the wits out of him before tossing him at the wall. It cracked in a spiderweb formation, a depression forming in it before the stunned young Knight collapsed onto the steps, his guns hanging from nerveless hands only by sheer force of prior training.

A Gunslinger released his weapons only when holstered or in death.

The demon's eyes widened and he looked upon the fallen Gunslinger in distaste, ignoring the flashes from Gideon's own pistols. "I'll teach you a lession, insect."

He opened his mouth wide and a flash of blue light errupted from it, streaking towards the fallen Knight. Simon's eyes widened as his doom approached, he tried to pull himself to his feet but he was hurt, stunned, clumsy and slow...

"NOOO!" Gideon's shout preceded his darting charge by only a hair's breadth. He rushed in front of the blast, his cloak streaming behind him like a penant. It struck him and he glowed a sickly blue for a moment before collapsing onto his hands and knees.

"Gideon!" Simon recovered and ran to the First Gun's side, a sickly greyness advancing up the stricken Knight's extremities as he gasped in shock and pain.

"Simon... I can't move my..."

"Gideon! Fight it! Fight!" Simon put his hands on the First Gun's shoulders. The grey advanced up the man's limbs and onto his trunk, Simon felt the flesh harden and turn to stone under his palms and moved them away, his face full of horror. Gideon's mouth opened to say something, his eye found Simon's...

And then the single warm brown orb turned grey and lifeless, cold as the stone it had become.

Simon fell backwards, skittering back in shock.

"No..."

The Demon chuckled. "Ha ha ha ha ha... I must applaud you, that was a fine show. Foolish little insects... you can't stop me! You heroics grant you nothing! Your stand here was empty and without meaning! See the fate of men! This Doom was upon you as soon as my daughter first drew breath! So it is Written! Ha ha ha ha HA HA HA HA!"

The demon brought down one huge fist, smashing the statue of Gideon to pebbles. Simon arched upward, screaming in rage, his pistols up again. He fired again and again into the hateful form of the Demon Lord in front of him, but the damnable thing just continued to laugh, casting the blue rays around him, the fallen bodies of his brothers and sisters turning to stone around him. Still he fired, his face a mask of hatred and rage, unknowningly fueling the demon's glee. He continued long after the hammers clicked down on empty chambers.

The demon threw forth one last beam of blue, and Simon's transformation began, his limbs stiffening to stone. Still he continued, until his fingers could no longer pull the triggers, his last conscious expression one of defiance and fury.

His pale blue eyes turned to cold, grey granite, his silver hair dulled and turned to ashen gray.

The Gunslingers fell silent. The demons danced and chortled in glee around the huge form of their master, smashing the various statues to flinders, tossing bits of rock and pieces of their own fallen brood at one another in glee. One of the more bold specimans picked up half of the shattered head of the First Gun, waving it above its own visage in a dance of freakish celebration before casting the stone down upon the skull of one of it's fellows, both of the objects shattering from the impact.

Another reached for one of the limbs of the grim statue of Simon, preparing to create a club for its own amusement. A single huge fist pulverized the demon into the ground, smashing it with a squelch of black blood and pulped flesh. The demons stopped and stared at their Lord in terror, rolling and gibbering, abasing themselves before him.

"No... that one remains... a lesson to those who would defy me. Let him look forever upon the ruins of his kingdom and despair. Let this be the fate of all who would defy Trigon! Lord of Scath! Harbinger of Wrath! Prince of Hatred!"

He turned his gaze to the gate and it shattered in a hail of blackened iron and red hot shards. The shrieking of the city's citizens began, as off in the distance a shooting star arched up from the Temple into the night sky.

Trigon's four eyes followed it and he grunted, a scowl appearing on his face. "Arella... you ungrateful bitch... so that was what this whole pointless endeavor was about."

He howled, tearing down the street, destorying buildings as he came. "No matter, witch! She is mine! I will have her one day! You have only doomed another world to this fate!"

"I am Hatred, and I shall not be denied!"

The burning began. The dying commenced.

The death of Azarath was assured.

* * *

-Present Day, the bones of Azarath-

Silent. Dark. Cold.

The long cold, shattered, blackened ruins of a gate, the blackened, cracked and in some places melted stone of a once beautiful city.

Nothing stirred, save a cold, deathly wind listlessly stirring the ashes. Here and there foul things skittered into the shadows, a cold black rain fell from a bleeding, gloomy sky.

Endless night, unending dark.

No color save shades of grey, of black, of midnight. All of the green growing things long since dried up and turned to dust, or withered and become poisonous, twisted... mockeries of life, full of hatred and despair.

A lone statue, weathered and strangely untouched amidst the ruins, alone on a blackened and twisted stair way. The rubble at its feet littered with the still barely recognizable pieces of other such statues, forgotten and alone.

Somewhere in amidst the rubble, a single disonant peal of a bell... calling the long lost citizens to a safety that was a lie.

A curious light haloed the statue, a warm, white light. The dark things nearby skittered away in fear, no blaspemous eyes able to bear the purity of it.

It had taken a long time... so long to marshal the power necessary for this last, desperate act.

She wasn't even sure it had a purpose anymore.

For a long time it was touch and go. The foulness that had encased the noble soul in darkness was powerful, and she so weak, so frail in her tattered state. It took all of her hoarded and jealously guarded strength to enact the process, but once begun, it could not be stopped. He would either be purified, or lost forever.

The light faded, the statue twisted slightly...

Then a figure collapsed onto its hands and knees, shaking, contorted with disorientation and weakness. Guns held in anger for what seemed like an eternity collapsed to the blackened marble, clattering as they fell.

A long suppressed cry of rage and despair escaped lips that had been frozen in an endless snarl for over a decade.

It came out as a hoarse, whispery sound of grief, like the last, silent, unheard cry of an old man denied the company of loved ones in his final hour. The figure rocked back and forth on his knees, gauntleted hands, loops empty of bullets, covering the face, tears staining the well worn leather.

He rocked back and forth in misery, his hands falling to his sides, his unseeing eyes turned to the weeping sky. Cold black rain mixed with his tears, hiding them, the foul fluid stinging his pale blue eyes.

He did not care.

"Siiimmooonnnn." A whisper reached his ears. He didn't react.

"Siiimmmonnn." The voice was repeated. He started, looking about him wildly.

He saw nothing. Nothing but devestation and endless darkness. His home was dead, long forgotten.

The misery flooded him again, but this time he closed his eyes against it, struggling to reach the Mental Fields. Time later for pain. Time later for grief and shame. For misery and the sting of failure. He forced himself to calmness, locking his emotions inside his breast tightly.

A worn and weathered Simon Artaine stood, drawing up his cloak's hood against the cold and the wet, his empty guns holstered once again. His eyes searched the landscape carefully, but he could find no sign of the speaker. He looked with suppressed sadness at the broken bodies of his fallen Brothers and sisters. Quietly he stepped through their remains, singing just barely under his breath the last rites.

There was nothing more he could do for them.

After a time he picked his way through the shattered gates, a stricken disbelieving expression faintly visible on his face as he witnessed the destruction in Trigon's passage and long habitation. The Azarath he had known was gone, forever shattered under the assault of implacable hatred. With her defenders slaughtered, the citizens had been without a prayer, without a chance for survival.

Even with her defenders, she had never had a chance, he realized dully.

The worn and well picked bones of the fallen littered the streets, huddled in houses and near the ancient, burned out shells of churches. Most heart rending were the tiny bones sheltered amongst the larger forms of their fallen parents, sheltered in those last moments of terror.

Even the children were not spared.

He made his way to one of the churches, the ancient, blackened and crumbling wooden door collapsing inward at his touch. As he suspected, the church was long defiled, the symbols cracked and crumbled, or covered with strange, blasphemous alien runes that made the eye ache to look at them. He clenched his teeth against the blasphemy and pushed at the altar stone, his nimble fingers finding the catches hidden there that would release the stone from its mounting.

Slowly, with the resistance of machinery long since decayed and rusted from neglect, the stone moved aside.

Hidden inside was a small battered metal box, its lid sealed over with wax and affixed with the holy seal of Azarath. Saying a quick prayer, Simon lifted the box out of its hole and broke the seal.

The box opened easily revealing a another small case and four wooden boxes marked with the symbol of the Apocryphal Knights. The case, he knew, contained the holy oils and blessed tools necessary to care for the Sacred Guns properly. This he slipped into an inside pocket of his cloak.

The wooden boxes he opened, revealing the rows and rows of shiny brass shells. He removed these quickly, his nimble fingers filling the twin gun belts around his waist, all the way around, then the loops at his wrists, then the loops at the backs of his hands. Finally he filled each gun, and returned them to their holsters. This task completed, he filled his pockets with all of the remaining bullets from the boxes, before returning the empty boxes to the case and returning the case to the hole, shutting the altar again.

He destroyed the marks of his passing, and strode out of the ruined church no less burdened by fate, but more confidently now that his stores were full.

He surveyed the destruction, searching for the strange whispering voice which had called him out.

A disonant pealing again, the sound of a Bell cracked and useless, toning out. He started at the sudden sound, then his eyes searched among the dust, falling upon the distant, blackened tower that once held the Bell of Mourning.

A tower which had apparently long since lost its top, the belltower and the bell missing.

He narrowed his eyes at this, then shrugged and picked his way cautiously through the rubble toward the distant, shattered remnant.

The Bell tolled again, calling him onward.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The door was missing, the tiles that made of the floor of the tower long since cracked and shattered. Here and there the basement could be seen through the floorboards underneath the tiles, and he stepped over them cautiously, his ears straining for every creak and groan of stressed timber. He looked upward.

The sky appeared dull and lifeless, clearly visible through the gaping hole where the bell used to sit. A slight pattering of rain descended upon him, filtered by the wreckage.

A flutter of movement caught his gaze and he turned suddenly, guns appearing as if by magic into his hands. The tail end of a white cloak flashed for a moment, then slipped up the ricketty stairs, hidden from view by the tall guiding rail wall.

"Wait!" He called, his guns going back into their holsters with practiced ease. He held out a hand, then staggered towards the retreating form.

One booted foot crashed through the floorboards and he fell to one knee, cursing and swearing. He jerked his foot free and sprinted over the cracked tiles for the stairs, reaching their base in only a couple of steps.

He peered up the stairs. The glimpse of that cloak and one soft white slipper disppearing around the curve of the stairs spurred him onward.

He vaulted up the steps quickly, avoiding the cracked and missing steps more by luck than any conscious effort. Despite his haste, despite the speed at which he moved, the figure retreating from him remained frustratingly out of sight, never further, nor closer than it had first appeared. Finally, the stairway at an end, Simon found himself on a ragged wooden platform several hundred feet above the tower floor, the open space around him.

He gasped for breath and stared around him, catching no sight of the white presence.

His eyes fell on the landscape and he stopped transfixed.

Destruction as far as the eye could see, distant storm clouds roiling, red lightning flashing out in the distance, continuing the destruction still. The barren hillside, the blackened, ruined buildings.

His eyes fell on the Temple of Spirit, and widened in shock.

The building was twisted, ruined and foul with darkness. Her gates, in the distance, were shattered, lying broken. Her arches and spires long since decayed and fallen like the hopes of her people. A dark malevolent cloud of ink roiled over it, four huge eyes searching the landscape with malignant satisfaction. Simon's eyes narrowed sullenly, his teeth clenched, his hands flexed.

"Trigon..." He hissed.

He took an unconscious step forward, than another, before a whispery, familiar voice stopped him cold.

"Seek thee to fall willingly into death, Gunslinger?"

He started, turning with sudden desperation, shock apparent on his face. A white cloaked stranger stood before him, hood up and face lowered. It was not possible to see the face of the one hidden, nor its hands, which were held together, hidden in the folds. The form was female, but the volumnous cloak hid any further detail.

"Who are you, who treads this realm of ghosts and dust?" He asked warily, his hands on the butts of his guns.

"A spectre, Simon Artaine, last of the Apocryphal Knights, last of the Gunslingers. A memory of former glory."

His breath hissed inward, he knew this voice. "You can't be... you must have died..." He breathed.

"Indeed I did, Gunslinger. Indeed I did." Arella lifted her face and drew back her hood, his startled eyes falling upon the ruin that was once great beauty.

Time had twisted Azarath. It had not been kind to her, either.

The wizened thing before him bore little resemblance to the High Priestess he remembered, the flesh long since gone from the high cheekbones. The skin was tight as leather against the ruins, holed here and there, skull-like grin visible through the wreckage of drawn back, tattered lips. The hair was long, falling contrastingly against the decayed flesh in still beautiful lengths. The hands which drew back the hood were but skeletal claws, bones clearly visible.

Worst of all were the eyes. Still perfect, still full of humanity and sadness... an aching reminder of what once was.

Simon recoiled in horror, turning his gaze away from that ruin.

"Merciful Gods, Priestess... this is... this is..."

"Abomination?" She said, pulling her hood back up to hide the decay. "Of course. Punishment for defying Trigon. He was ever one to find that punishment which most stung. To walk amongst the dead of my people, unable to ease their passage, a corpse myself..."

"Yes... this is Trigon's work." She barked a short derisive laugh, no humor in it at all. "You expected mercy?"

He looked at her again, his expression pitying but wary, nonetheless. "Of course not."

He sighed. "All hope is lost, then. Look at our home, Arella. Azarath is no more." He turned back to the roiling cloud that was the Lord of Hatred. "I failed you. All of you. We failed." He turned his head slightly, gazing at her sidelong, his expression sad.

"I thank you for releasing me from my imprisonment, you who were once one I held esteemed, but you must know I cannot allow your half existence to continue. Suffer no-"

"Suffer no soul to live beyond its body. Suffer no body to live beyond its soul." She interrupted, her hands clasped in front of her. "I know well the Litany, young Knight. I expected no less, indeed I long for it. Still, once you have fulfilled your duty, what then?"

He sighed. "What else is there to do? I shall bring war to the Tyrant, and he will surely end me this time. Still, I have no other-"

"She still lives, Simon." Arella said quietly.

He stopped, his expression turning to stone. "What?"

"My daughter is still alive. She-"

"How COULD you!" He roared, his guns lifting in the blink of an eye. His eyes were full of hatred. "You KNOW how much he covets her... what he will do! You have DAMNED her, Arella! You could have saved her, could have ended her suffering before he could get to her, but you allowed-"

"SILENCE, YOUNGLING!" The hissed voice drove him to one knee, his face turning pale under that assault. "Dead I may be, but I am STILL your better, and you will not speak to me in arrogance of things of which you remain ignorant."

He blinked.

She settled slightly, sighing. "Do you think I would allow him to get his hands on her? Of course not. I knew we had lost... Gideon... all of the others knew. As soon as Trigon was able to rent the Veil, all hope for Azarath was lost."

His face turned to despair. "Then why?"

"There was more at stake than the fate of Azarath, no matter how dear it was. Like it or not, my daughter is a portal, a doorway through which Trigon can wreak his vengeance upon other worlds. Killing her would have only doomed another innocent to accept Trigon's foul seed. He will not be so easily denied."

He looked down, chastened.

"Your conviction does you credit, young Knight. Your heart is in the right place, it always was. Even as an apprentice, your Ka remained the most pure, the most focused. It was hoped..." She sighed. "It was hoped that you would one day ascend to the rank of First Gun."

His features twisted with disbelief. "Me? But I am... was... not even blooded... not even paired. How could I have..."

A small bit of humour escaped her. She chuckled very slightly. "Did you think your guidance of my daughter was mere happenstance, Gunslinger? Even then, you were chosen. She was too young to accept the bonds of course, but linked you remained. There would have been no escape for you."

He reeled at this. A thousand clamoured protests flooded his head. "But... she was but a child! How could... I mean... But I-"

"Age matters little. Ka bonds were it will, destinies are chosen beyond mortal ken, young Gunslinger. Perhaps the gods forsaw this doom, perhaps they were hedging their bets, I know not. Mark my words, Gunslinger. Time has passed during your imprisionment. Much time, I am afraid. My daughter has had to fend for herself for far too long."

"She's here!" He asked, disbelief apparent.

"Of course not." She scoffed. "As Trigon rent the veil, so we too, have commited this sin. It was our last desperate option, the last effort of a dying race."

Despair filled his features again. "Then she IS lost... At least she is safe-"

"Have you not been listening, Gunslinger? It was I who released you, think you I would do so to no effect other than to prolong your suffering? I have waited too long, marshalled my strength for far too long, to let you waste what I have done. Mark my words, Gunslinger, what I have done to you is far worse than anything Trigon committed, to my shame. I would have left you eternally still, had there been any other way."

He looked confused. "I do not understand... What sin? I feel fine..."

She shook her head, sadness in her voice. "You will learn, Gunslinger. For now we must hurry. There is little time. Already He searches for you, and this time He will not hesitate to destroy you. Already He reaches out across the gulf of worlds, His influence in my daughter is growing. She NEEDS you, Gunslinger... needs you more than I can bear. For this, I would sacrifice a hundred of you, a thousand. I have only one, and it will have to do."

He watched her, his features set, stony as he considered her words. Then he knelt, his guns forming the cross of confession. He lowered his head. "I swear it upon my guns, High Priestess. I will guard her with my life. I will not allow that foulness to touch her, that destroyed my homeland."

"Done!" She cried. "I bind you to your oath, swear that you will hold it above all other things... above even the Litany."

He balked. "I cannot... I dare not..."

"SWEAR IT!" She hissed, her skull inches from his face. He paled, then gazed into her anguished, still human eyes. "Swear it, or all is lost!"

"I swear." He whispered hoarsely.

She backed away, allowing him to regain his feet. "Time grows shorter still. Fullfill your duties, Gunslinger. Slay that soul which hath outlived its body. Send me home..."

He raised one pistol slowly, focusing his Ka upon it. The Mental Fields jumped to clarity and he infused the bullet with its energy.

"I have bound my soul to a spell of transit. It is linked to the world my daughter has fled to. When you strike, the spell will take the last of my energies and open a portal, a conduit between your guns and the new world. You MUST open the way, it will last only for a heartbeat. Strike true, Gunslinger, it must end with a single shot. Protect my daughter, tell her that I love her. Remember your Oath!"

The hammer pulled back, the shadows loomed. "Gods' speed, sister. The Fields await." He intoned.

"Do it!" She whispered.

A crack of thunder.

An empty cloak folded upon the ground, smoke rising from it.

The smoke coalesced then fled into the barrel of the gun in an odd reverse of normality. Simon raised the gun high in the air, then brought it down slowly, tearing a hole in the fabric of reality itself.

He was sucked through in an instant, the rush of air stirring the cloak on the ground and throwing up a thin patina of dust.

The hole disappeared with a sudden crack of displaced air.

The dust settled... the cloak was lifted by the wind and slowly fluttered down from the tower, the only hint of movement.

It was soon darkened and stained by the rain, before long it matched the landscape.

Death returning to Azarath, after a brief respite.

* * *

Raven, once known in another life, another world, awoke to a sudden surge of warmth within her. She blinked, casting outward with her power for the source of the unsettling feeling. As soon as it appeared, it was gone, leaving her as cold and empty as she usually was.

She settled back down, her amethyst eyes troubled.

"Something is coming." She whispered.

Try as she might, she was not able to get back to sleep that night.


	2. In a Savage Land

A/N: Not much to say except man I'm diggin' this story. I know I should work on the other stuff but I can't help it, I have so much planned for this one. You guys just have no idea. I find myself having to force myself to take my time and do this right, when what I really wanna do is skip to the good stuff I have planned. 

Which is not to say what I have written here so far is BAD mind you, just that I really enjoy plotting out this story. Man this is gonna be a blast.

I know I shouldn't focus so much on Simon, but I have to make him REAL for you guys, as real as the Titans anyway. That is, of course, always a danger with a fanmade character... however I think the story stands up on its own merits. Bear in mind that this is an AU, however... while the characters may act the same as they do from the cartoon (I'm pretty firm on that subject) their pasts differ...

As you are certainly aware, having read this far.

In any case, on with the show!

* * *

"Won't you look down upon me, Jesus. You've got to help me make a stand. You've just got to see me through another day. My body's aching and my time is at hand. And I won't make it any other way. Oh, I've seen fire and I've seen rain. I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end. I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend. But I always thought that I'd see you again." -Fire and Rain, James Taylor

There is Nothing between the walls of worlds.

Simon became intimately familiar with this fact as he tore through the Veil, a silent scream transfixed upon his horror-struck visage.

There are some things too terrible, too vastly inimical to the human condition to be borne by a mortal mind. Simon's calling made him well prepared for horrors made flesh, but the concept of Nothing... not darkness, not emptiness, but the absence of all things was something the stalwart Gunslinger could not possibly have withstood. He twisted and fought with limbs he could not feel nor move, tried to close eyes that he could not see through, scream with lungs that could not fill with air, nor hear his own desperate shrieks.

It lasted only an instant, but in that endless Void time lost all meaning, all significance, until there was only a mind ravaged by terror screaming soundlessly in the dark, for what seemed like an eternity.

Fortunately the human mind is infinitely able to piece itself back together from the most terrible of experiences. Otherwise the wretched thing that popped into existence in the carefully preserved wilderness thirty miles from the Jump City limits would surely have perished alone and uselessly, no matter how dire his quest.

This did not, however, mean that our young Apocryphal Knight was out of the woods. Figuratively speaking of course, and your pardon for the pun.

Arella had miscalculated, or perhaps had simply had no choice in the matter. It is entirely possible that she had been left with only one remaining untainted place of power in that lone, creaking, decrepit bell tower. It is also possible that undeath had lent her a decidedly quirky sense of humor. Simon's entry onto earth was quite different from the method used to send his young, frightened and alone predecessor. Where as she had been SENT to Earth, Simon had been translocated. The difference between the two is rather like comparing a bullet from a gun fired through a piece of paper and a droplet of water slowly sinking through and staining the other side. However this is not a completely accurate description as Raven's entry was much less forceful than a gunshot, and Simon's entry was far more violent than diffusion. Regardless, translation between dimensions by its very nature forces the conservation of energy... a traveler between worlds using the method of translocation will find themselves moving at the same speed, facing the same direction, and most importantly in this case, at the same HEIGHT as the point at which they translocated.

Hence, Simon found himself completely discombobulated and disoriented a hundred feet above the forest floor.

Normally Simon was as graceful as a cat. By nature and training a Gunslinger has inhumanly fast reflexes. However, having just had his mind run through the equivalent of a nilhilist's idea of paradise, it was safe to say that he was not at his level best in the reflexes department.

Not to mention the fact that even a cat goes splat when you drop it from a tenth story window.

Fortunately for Simon, he only fell about twenty feet before he encountered something... actually several somethings, that broke his fall.

He fell into a tree, breaking and snapping tree limbs and went crashing through the canopy like a bowling ball through toothpicks. The scene would have been comical, had it not also looked so very painful, and had it been witnessed by something other than several startled squirrels and a terror stricken deer. Simon wrapped around a larger limb, the air leaving him in a whoosh of breath, then slide backwards off of it, jarring his back against another limb before pinwheeling forward uncontrollably and slamming his head solidly against the tree's trunk.

The last ten feet of his fall were performed completely unconscious, and his soft landing in a large, leafy bush was something of an anticlimax.

* * *

"You summoned me, Brother Gideon?" The First Gun looked up quietly, his single remaining eye softening at the sight of the young Gunslinger so recently returned from his Journeyman travels. He wore the dark leather armor as though born into it, his midnight blue cloak immaculate and shiny in it's newness. Every inch of his gear was polished and shined to perfection, from the heavy black leather boots with their steel toes to the dark brown leather of his crossed gunbelts. The newly dyed red of his right leather gauntlet was so fresh it looked as though the dye were still wet.

Gideon sighed inwardly. Every year the newest Gunslingers came before him for assignment, and every year they looked younger and younger, though he knew the lad before him had seen his seventeenth summer come and go. It was simply a change in perception.

Just a little more grey in his own already streaked, shaggy black mane.

He stood up and walked past the stiff postured young Knight, putting a fatherly hand on the boy's shoulder. The young man started, then looked at him in askance.

"Walk with me, Brother Simon. Tell me, how are your Fields today?" The old man's single chocolate orb darted to Simon's face as he walked alongside his long time mentor. The boy was long in answering, as though his eyes glimpsed something far away.

"Calm and tranquil, Brother." His face grew slightly wry, the cynical expression adding years to his uncreased features. "You want something of me, something you deem onerous. You might as well out with it, Old Wolf. Do the Initiates require coddling again?"

Gideon chuckled easily, and several startled initiates glanced up nervously at the unfamiliar sound coming from the terror of their existence as he passed, a young knight alongside him. They quickly returned their gazes to the dirt where they toiled, least they draw the Old Wolf's ire.

"Brother Simon, you will be an old man before I will, with that attitude." His expression grew serious. "Still, there is truth to your accusations. There IS a matter I need tended to... one which I would trust to no other."

"You have my undivided attention now, Brother." Simon raised a single silver eyebrow in askance. The traces of humor were still present in his voice though, which Gideon took as a good sign.

"You are... aware... the High Priestess has a daughter?"

Simon frowned, wondering at the strange question. There tended to be meanings within meanings in Gideon's speech... most elder Gunslingers were fond of riddles, puzzles and mysteries. Everyone in Azarath knew the story of Trigon's last assault, and the price that had been paid. Simon himself remembered the incident as a largely surreal night of terror, huddled along with the other second year Initiates in their bunkhouses as guns blazed outside and men screamed in fury and terror. He'd grown up with stories of how Gideon had lost his right eye, driving the demon away from the ravaged form of the High Priestess, the guns of he and his brothers and sisters blazing as they forced the Demon Lord back through the gates. Of course he knew of the result of that terrible incident, but that probably wasn't the answer Gideon was looking for. He chose his words carefully.

"The ghostly little waif that haunts the temple grounds, surrounded by watchful priests when she isn't trailing in the footsteps of her mother? I am as aware of her presence as any who does not truely know her, Gideon."

Gideon frowned, then turned his gaze to the temple doors as they approached. "It is written that she will be the death of Azarath, Brother Simon. There are some of our order who say it is better to rip out the weed now before it has had a chance to grow thorns."

Again, Simon considered his answer. He had heard such talk as well, but found it difficult to believe that a child, no matter what her origins could be capable of such a monstrousity. Rather, he looked upon it as a self-fulfilling prophecy, a child scorned and shown nothing but fear and hatred would know only fear and hatred. From what he'd heard of Arella's handling of the situation, he cautiously approved of the approach.

"I think such talk is premature, when one has yet to determine whether or not what grows is indeed a weed. Considering the mother, I find it difficult to weigh the sins of the father upon the child."

Gideon grinned then, and clapped Brother Simon on the shoulder. "Excellent. You will make an excellent tutor in the Fields, as I suspected. We have only to introduce the two of you!"

Simon stopped cold, his mouth dropping open in shock. "Me! Instruct? But... she's Spirit caste... and... I, but-"

Gideon continued as though he hadn't heard Simon's shocked protests. "I should warn you... despite your enlightened perception of the child's situation, you may find her a somewhat odd bird to-"

A shriek and the sound of shattering porcelain interrupted Gideon's speech. Just then a young priestess burst through a nearby doorway, her robes held high enough to allow her to sprint. She dashed across the room and fled down the far hallway, trailing hysterical cries in her wake.

Simon blinked as the impeccable image of the reserved and stately demeanor of the Spirit Caste forever shattered in his perception. A worn and tired looking Arella followed, her own pace far more dignified, if no less hurried. She muttered to herself.

"I'd better track that ninny down. I told her today was a bad day, but she had to-"

She blinked, seeing the two bemused Gunslingers watching her with curious eyes. She straightened at the sight of Gideon and a small crease of humor wrinkled the corners of her eyes.

"Gideon... you're just in time. It's bad today... she just can't seem to focus on anything for more than a few moments time... and Yelena certainly didn't help matters, the silly goose." She looked Simon up and down critically, and he straightened under the scrutiny, intimately aware of the High Priestess of the Spirit Caste's perceptive gaze.

She raised an eyebrow and turned to Gideon. "He's younger than I expected, but then they always are, these days. Still, it might do her some good. Someone a little more fresh faced than her normal tutors... someone she might be able to relate to."

"My thoughts exactly, High Priestess. May I introduce Brother Simon, recently advanced to Knightly stature. Simon, I'm sure you already know Lady Arella."

"An honor, Mistress." He bowed fluidly, taking her hand in an impulsive gesture and kissing her ring. Gideon suppressed a surprised snort and Arella grinned at him mischievously.

"Oh he's a charmer, Gideon. I see you haven't quite managed to beat the flair for the dramatic and the romance out of this one. I, for one, approve. I think if less Gunslingers grimly strode about as though they had a third Sacred Gun up their ass, Azarath would be a much happier place."

"Arella!" Gideon snorted, covering his mouth with one gauntlet. He appeared to be shaking in outrage, but actually he was trying not to laugh. Fortunately Simon was too dumbstruck to notice.

Gideon composed himself after a moment, then directed his gaze to the dark room shared with her one of those silent, worried, questioning gazes more appropriate for a father worried about the welfare of his child. Her face eased into tranquility, and she sighed.

"It will do her good, Gideon. She needs a friend more than anything else." She said softly, the humor still twinkling in her eyes, though her expression had softened into seriousness.

Gideon nodded after a time and sighed. "You are ever the guiding star, Milady. Get in there, lad."

Simon picked his jaw up off the ground and looked at Arella with a troubled expression. Arella smiled at him gently.

"Just introduce yourself, be polite, and remember there is a very scared and hurt little girl in there. Let things develop as they may, and we shall see."

Simon walked forward as though waiting his execution, stepping over to the doorway and pausing for a moment, squaring his shoulders. Gideon's eyes flared with amusement.

"Hop to, lad. Don't let her scare you."

He stepped into the dark room.

Arella turned to Gideon as the door closed and sighed.

Gideon nodded. "It's as I suspected, then?"

Arella nodded. "I've never seen such complimentary Ka before. Gideon, if we hadn't engineered this meeting, they might have found themselves seeking one another out anyway, with or without our approval. I can't help but wonder, why so much time between them? Why this boy? Why her at all?"

Gideon frowned sternly, his eye distant. "This will, at least, set aside doubts as to her caste status. Should the two of them bond, they cannot deny her her birthright as one of the Spirit."

She sighed, leaning against the wall tiredly. "Gideon... are we doing the right thing? It will not be easy for her... for both of them. I fear he will have to protect her from her own more often than any outside danger, but he is a Gunslinger, albeit a young one, and they abide. I have to wonder however... can she provide to him what he needs? You know that any sort of emotional rapport is... dangerous for her."

Gideon shrugged. "You're asking the wrong soul, Milady. I but answer to the whims of gods and certain overbearing, demanding High Priestesses."

Her eyes filled with humor again. "Oh, I'm going to make you pay for that one, Gideon."

Gideon chuckled. "I'm certain of it. I look forward to it."

They shared a quiet laugh.

* * *

Simon inched his way into the pitch black room, his feet sweeping slowly forward questing for objects that his eyes could not detect. He swept his gauntlets in front of him also, encountering a table and exploring it with whisper faint, moth-leg like touches of his fingers.

A strained, tear-filled voice of a young girl cut out through the darkness.

"Go away."

He turned to the direction of the voice, which oddly echoed about the room from the wrong height. He frowned, confused. It was as though the speaker were several feet taller than any little girl had any right to be. His fingers found an upset oil lamp and he carefully removed one gauntlet, checking the tablecloth for spilled oil. Finding none, he righted the lamp and searched for the small packet of sparkdust in his cloak, still oriented towards the voice.

"With it so dark in here, no wonder you're breaking things. That's hardly cause to be upset." He said carefully. He had no experience with trying to reason with noninitiate children, especially half demonic ones, and so he fell on the only thing which approached it in circumstance, using a tone suited to calming a terrified colt.

"I said go away. Are you stupid? It's dark in here because I might start a fire if the lamp is lit... I don't want to hurt you, but if you keep-"

He found the sparkdust and sprinkled some on his fingers snapping them against the wick of the lamp. A faint glow lit the room, and he slowly adjusted the flow of oil until the shadows crept back and disappeared. He replaced the glass around the flame and the light brightened considerably. He replaced his gauntlet onto his hand.

He found the reason why the little girl's voice was so oddly placed.

Floating several feet above the ground the little girl was curled in the fetal position, her dainty slippers barely peeking out from under the hem of her initiate robes. Her striking lavender hair was in disarray, several short strands of it coiling and curling as though they hand a life of their own. Several objects, plates, a cup of some sort, and a fireplace poker of all things, hovered near her restlessly, each object encased in a wobbling black field. Simon suppressed the instinct to reach for his guns at the sight.

"There now... bright as day. No more bumbling into things and making a mess."

Tear streaked cheeks red from crying peeked up from bony knees and Simon found himself staring at a pair of anguished, striking amethyst eyes. He could not suppress the intake of breath then. There was a jewel-like quality to them that was both striking and slightly disturbing. He could see the ghost of future beauty in that sorrowful face, something inherited from her mother.

The floating objects and hovering of the girl herself told of her father's influence.

Her eyes widened suddenly and she trembled with strain, as though trying to hold something back.

"I told you! Look out! I can't control it!" She gasped.

One of the plates wobbled, then darted at him like a startled bird. In one reflexive motion his hand flashed upward, catching the plate solidly and holding it in place. The black aura vanished around it and the little girl blinked, suddenly startled by the unexpected turnabout.

"Thank you for the warning..." He said dryly.

She blinked. "You're... welcome?"

He set the plate down next to the lamp and walked around the table, leaning against it and scratching his chin as he inspected the floating child. Her eyes followed him warily, like a small animal preparing to dart at the first sign of aggression.

"What are you called, milady?"

She blinked at the unexpected question, her face peeking a little bit more from its hiding place. "R-Rachel. Rachel Roth."

He raised a single silver eyebrow and nodded. "I am Simon Artaine, Fourth Order Knight of the Red Hand. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Roth." He bowed easily.

She blinked. "I'm n-not a lady."

He raised blinked. "Indeed? What are you, then?"

She glanced sideways, avoiding his gaze. "That depends on who you ask."

Simon suppressed his startlement at the level of sophistication of the child's speech. He had expected a tantrum, baby words and foolishness. This was a seven year old? He supposed this was better, but it still left him slightly off balance. He decided on a Gunslinger's approach.

"Well I am asking you. I see no one else in the room, save me, and I do not know you. I had incorrectly assumed that you were a lady, I apologize for my mistake. Correct me, if you would."

She narrowed her eyes slightly, trying to follow his logic. It took her a moment, but she got it, then answered in a downcast tone. "I'm a little girl, I suppose."

He crossed his arms, looking skeptical. "You suppose? You do not know whether or not you are a little girl?"

The words came out in a flood. "Yelena said I was a demon. I don't want to be a demon, but she wouldn't listen, then things started to happen. Things always happen. I don't mean them to, but they do anyway!"

He looked toward the door. "Yelena is an initiate? Blonde hair... about so tall, shrill sort of voice?"

She nodded confused.

He nodded. "Well, I say Yelena is a silly goose. Does that make her a goose?"

Rachel's mouth quirked at the comment, but she shook her head. "No..."

"Hmm... are you sure? Her temprament lends me to believe she might honk and break into flight at any moment..."

A small grin, quickly hidden. "No..."

He frowned. "Hmm... well then I suppose you are what you are then."

Her face was fully visible now. She looked at him plaintively. "Then what am I?"

He scratched his chin again. "I don't know... if I may..."

She blinked. "What?"

He leaned close. "I will have to inspect you if I am to render a decision. Hold still."

She blinked, then went still, watching him with that wary expression again. He reached one gloved finger up tentatively and tapped her forehead.

She followed his finger, a bemused expression on her face.

"Hmm..."

He touched one cheek and turned her head to the left, diligently inspecting her. He turned her face the other way, then tilted her head upward, his face forming different expressions of studious concentration.

She rolled her eyes slightly. "Umm..."

"Hold still." He muttered.

He walked a slow circle around her, his hands crossed behind his back, looking her up and down. She held still, but when he came around to her front her eyes followed his movement.

"Hmm... well, I don't see any demons here." He said finally.

"So does that make me a little girl?" She asked, trying to figure out his game, but failing.

He shook his head. "I thought so at first, but little girls don't float, do they?" He said reasonably.

She looked down. "No..."

"Well there has to be something that floats and looks like a little girl, but isn't a demon." He said, appearing to muse it over.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "So what do you think I am?"

"Well it's a bit early to tell, but in my opinion, I'd have to say..." He snapped his fingers.

"An angel."

She blinked, staring at him in shock. "What!"

"I've made up my mind. You're an angel. You'll just have to live with it."

She wrinkled her nose. "Simon..."

He blinked. "Hmm?"

"You're weird."

He shrugged. "That makes two of us, Angel."

Then he smiled.

* * *

Raven awoke slowly, rubbing her head and groaning. She could swear she had only a few moments earlier managed to close her eyes and get some much needed rest. She considered lying abed for a few more hours then quashed the idea nearly as quickly. Wednesday. Training. She didn't need any more concern from her companions than they were already likely to give her.

Not that she didn't appreciate it, far more deeply than she could ever express to them, but sometimes it was horribly stifling and she just didn't have the energy today to deal with it.

She swept back the covers from herself and swung her slender legs out from the bed, her bare feet sinking into the carpet. One definite improvement from the various monastaries she'd first inhabited in her time here... no cold, stone floors.

She stood up and plodded towards her bathroom, raising one hand wearily and turning up the light slowly in doing so. Another luxury she had gotten used to in her time here, something she associated with home. The harsh flourscent lights that snapped to full brightness when activated always hurt her eyes for a moment before they adjusted, not like the gentle candle light or lamp light of Azarath.

Sometimes it was the little things that stove off the sadness of her lost home.

She spared a bit of concentration and proceeded to complete her morning ablutions, the small toiletries spinning about her performing their various functions as though held by invisible hands. She spared her attention inward, achieving the Mental Fields with practiced ease and ordering herself internally.

She considered the fading dream from which she'd awoken carefully. It had been a memory more than a dream, her first awkward meeting with a man who would become central to her young life, her tutor in the Fields, and her most cherished friend, young Simon Artaine. Young, she realized now, but he had seemed so big and strong to her then. Very few little girls can say they had an actual knight to watch over them. Though of course if this Knight wore no armor but leather, and if he had no sword on his hip, he was a knight none the less. Noble and honorable. She blushed slightly as she remembered it. There was a reason in her imaginings of Malchior's true form in her story, he had had pale blue eyes and silver hair. Of course Malchior could never be Simon. Malchior knew nothing of honor, of sacrifice.

Simon... She had known him only a year, but that year had been one of the most cherished memories she had.

It was also one of the most painful, when she considered what she had lost.

-Careful.- She admonished herself. -You haven't even meditated yet. Let it go, for now. Force it down and keep going. For all of them.-

She had gotten very good at it.

By the time she left her solitary room, she was completely composed and utterly in control. She made her way down to the common area, her cloak stirring slightly in the whoosh of the elevator opening to allow her exit. For once Beast Boy and Cyborg had apparently dispensed with their normal animousity this morning, probably because it was Robin's turn to cook. The smell of pancakes and syrup overrode her senses for a moment, and her stomach clenched in hunger.

She had forgotten today was pancake day. How could she have forgotten today was pancake day?

Robin didn't turn to her, he simply continued cooking. "How many, Raven?"

She blinked, then sat down quietly. "Two please."

"Comin' up." His gloved hands moved quickly, pouring batter onto the pan and scraping up one of the almost done cakes, flipping it over before it had a chance to burn. Starfire chose that moment to come around the bend of the corridor. She took a moment to take in the pleasant scent of cooking pancakes before she grabbed a plate. Robin never turned away from the griddle. He simply reached over and grabbed another pan set slightly to the side and flipped the two pancakes on it off and into the air towards the half awake Tamaranian. She meeped quietly in surprise then fumbled out with her empty plate, catching the pancakes on their high arc and staring goggle eyed at the Boy Wonder.

"Morning, Starfire."

She blushed, seating herself. "Good morning, Friend Robin... thank you for the flying breakfast cakes from pans." She looked around the tabletop plaintively.

"Mustard's on the table next to the syrup."

Her eyes lit up and she grabbed the squat yellow bottle, squirting a generous helping onto her breakfast. Raven averted her eyes and Beast Boy wrinkled his nose.

"Man, I'll never get used to that..." He said queasily.

A plate appeared before Raven and she glanced down at it. A light dusting of powdered sugar could be seen atop it. She raised an eyebrow.

"What is this?"

He grinned mischievously. "Sweets for the-"

"You really want to start today out with head trauma, Boy Wonder?" She monotoned.

He shrugged. "Eh, just try it before you complain. Variety is the spice of life."

She slipped easily into the banter between them, as she always did. "Says the guy with a closet full of endless red, green and yellow."

"And how would you know what the inside of my closet looks like?"

She didn't dignify that with an answer, instead picking up the butter and smearing a light amount on her pancakes, then adding a bit of strawberry preserves rather than syrup. Robin seated himself last, adding various toppings to his own breakfast.

Cyborg reached a midpoint in his daily gorging and looked up from his empty plate. He began to help himself to some of the extras Robin had put on a large plate in the middle of the table, ignoring the glares he received from the slightly slower Beast Boy. He took a look at Raven and raised one large brow in askance.

"Rough night, Rae?"

She sighed, delicately picking at her breakfast, not because it didn't taste good, but because her appetite was so small today, in spite of how hungry she was.

"Had some trouble sleeping. Nothing to worry about." She said absently.

Robin and Cyborg shared a look, then Robin swallowed his mouthful. "Bad dreams?"

She shook her head mutely. "No, actually. Good dreams."

Starfire watched the byplay guilelessly. "Pleasant dreams, friend Raven? What did you dream of?"

She bottled up again, picking at her breakfast in silence. "Nothing important."

Knowing from experience that prying at the closed door would only further jam it shut, the team settled back into easy banter. Raven basked in the good naturedness of it, the lightness of her friends mood going a long way to easing her own. Even though she seldom added to the conversation unless pressed upon, she felt a part of their circle, and she appreciated that, more than she could rightly express to them.

It had taken so long for her to feel that way again, about anyone. Sometimes she wished she could tell them how much she appreciated them, but the words always failed her. She didn't want to get too close... it would only make it more difficult when they would inevitably have to seperate. She'd learned THAT lesson very well, very early in life.

She wouldn't make that mistake again.

* * *

He groaned quietly, consciousness returning to him in a sudden flash of discomfort and pain, and for a moment he mistook the branches half supporting him as claws holding him down. He struggled in sudden panic, snapping several branches off and ripping himself free of the confines of his bush before he was fully aware and awake, revolver in hand pointing in various directions. The sudden movement sent a wave of nausea and dull, throbbing pain through his skull, and he holstered his pistol and held his hand to the side of his head, reeling slightly.

The right side of his face was covered with crusted over blood, and tentative exploration of his brow found a painful cut just above his right eye. The eye itself was completely gummed shut by the dried mass, and it took him several painful, stinging moments and a vigerous, painful scrubbing with a rag and some water from his canteen before he could see clearly through both eyes again. He did a quick check of himself.

No broken bones, a few very painful bruises but nothing serious. The head injury might be bad, but since he'd regained consciousness and the pain had settled back into merely unpleasant rather than debilitating he was willing to ignore it, for now. He surveyed his surroundings.

The sky looked the same as Azarath, at least, the same as he remembered it from before Trigon. A momentary ribbon of longing wove through him and he quickly suppressed it, continuing his quick observation of the forest around him. The ground was covered with fallen leaves and no few snapped branches, the sharp scent of sap reaching his nostrils. He looked up, spotting the jagged tear in the canopy that had undoubtedly announced his arrival. He winced slightly as his eyes followed the path of his descent, and he muttered a quiet thankful prayer to whatever gods might happen to still be watching his feeble struggles, that he had survived the fall alive and relatively intact. It was late afternoon, possibly close to evening, and the forest was slightly dim, cool and pleasant. The sounds of birds and the various scuffles and skitterings of a hundred small woodland dwellers told him that no large predators were nearby, and that he had been here long enough to put the area at ease at his presence.

It could have been one of the younger forests of home, right down to the sounds of the birds and various bits of recognizable foliage. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes.

A faint scent reached him, a smell not terribly dissimilar to unrefined lamp oil, along with a slightly unpleasant, acrid, scorched scent. He followed his nose for a moment, his experienced eyes picking up faint signs of habitation... strange crystal clear bits of membranous material that felt slick and impossibly strong under his fingers, and crinkled slightly when he picked it up. He twisted it a little and it crackled under his fingers, but only when he exerted himself was he able to stretch and finally tear the material.

His eyes fell on a small maroon colored cylinder shape that's edges glinted duly in the sunlight. He picked it up, trying to make sense of the runes on its surface. The letters looked vaguely familiar to him, and after a moment the style of writing became clear to him, a slightly corrupted version of the common Azar tongue. Still, despite the familiar characters, the word itself was not familiar, and he tried it out, sounding it out carefully, the strange sounds making no sense to his ears.

"Durrrrpepper. Drrrr... pepper."

He gave up and examined the surprisingly light metal can a little while longer. There were a few words on it he recognized. Sugar. Corn. Syrup. Fat. Color. Acid. After a moment of trying to puzzle the some of the other stranger, tongue twisting alchemical sounding words, he reasoned that it was a container for some potent medicine and put it in his small travel pouch for later examination. His eyes found a dusty track of some sort, and the faint signs of travel upon it, although he didn't recognize the strange, thin tracks left behind. It appeared the sort of indentations that wheels would make, but there was only a single continuous line, checkered with deeper indentations around it. He found himself trying to imagine the vehicle that could make such tracks and gave up after a moment, his imagination not up to the task. Still, tracks and movement meant habitation, and habitation meant people that he could ask for assistance or at least, directions.

He started down the track, his head clearing now that he had a short term goal. Despite the enormity of the task ahead of him, he was able to remain focused through the application of his Mental Fields, weighing each new bit of information and each setback clinically, reasoning a way around them as he walked. Certainly he had no idea where his charge had disappeared to, and certainly her trail had long since grown cold, if the spectre of Arella was to be believed, but his Ka was focused, tugging him onward.

The evening faded slowly into night as the minutes spent trekking along the beaten, occasionally muddied path gradually lengthened into hours, and hearing no large predators nearby, Simon relaxed slightly. This place had to be nearby civilization, if most of the large predators had been driven away. Surely it was only a matter of time before...

He stopped the trail having reached the end of the wood. His eyes focused onward, finding a strange, slick, faded black surface in front of him, several glass looking bumps at regular intervals raised down its center, along with weathered white and yellow painted markings. He blinked at it, that slightly distasteful scent of oil and tar and something acrid and dirty filling his nostrils. He bent down slowly and tapped its surface.

Hard... resiliant. Like stone, but far too smooth to have been pieced together. Certainly he couldn't imagine such an endeavor. It must have taken them centuries to build such a marvel.

It was obviously a road of some sort, but like no road he'd ever seen. What sort of people inhabited this strange new world?

As night deepened a faint light became visible in the corner of his vision and he stood up, looking out in the distance.

His mouth dropped open, his eyes widened with shock and alarm.

A city of light, buildings stretching up into the sky taller than mountains, far taller than any building in the whole of Azarath. From this distance it appeared a place of ominous dark towers lit up blindingly with every color in the rainbow, and a few not so familiar, some random shapes and strange symbols, others half recognizable letters spelling out alien words.

He felt his legs weakening under him and he stumbled slightly, overwhelmed at the sight. These people were like gods! Masters of some strange and alien form of magic, that they could produce buildings that tore at the very skyline, and lights brighter than the moon and the stars without the application of oil or alchemy. Even in the distance he could see no end to the megalithic city in the distance, it stretched from horizon to horizon, a shining expanse of seemingly endless variation. The enormity of his task hit him then, and he nearly despaired.

"How can I possibly find her in all of this, Arella?" He breathed.

For a moment the weight of it threatened to crush him, but he recalled something Gideon had told him once, long ago. A riddle, but also a lesson of sorts.

How does a man move a mountain from his path?

Simon considered the task before him, then bolstered his flagging strength and took his first tentative steps onto that strange road. His boot heels clumped on it quietly, but it remained firm beneath them.

One step became another, than another. He walked down the center of the road, his footfalls gaining confidence as he strode.

"One stone at a time." He muttered under his breath.

* * *

Silence save for the repetative plodding of heavy boots on pavement. the throbbing in his head had dulled to a slight ache. He kept his vision on the road before him, marveling at the straightness of its lines and the consistency of it. He considered the situation before him carefully. Finding Rachel would be difficult, but not impossible. Having spent so much time with her, having trained her in the Mental Fields, Simon had an intuitive grasp of her Ka and what it looked like. It was very similar to his own in fact, which was of course, only natural. He reasoned that her Ka had been shaped by his teachings, corrupted slightly by his view of how mental discipline should be focused.

Fortunately what that meant was that to one trained in the perception of Ka and its many vaguaries, a person with a strong sense of it stood out like a diamond among rubies.

Still, his perception was not limitless. He would have to narrow down the search, which of course meant that he would have to learn of the world to which he had been sent. Considering the megalythic structures before him, that would be no easy task. He would certain have-

He stopped, frowning, his finely tuned senses suddenly acutely focused on a sense of wrongness... something was coming... something that put him in danger.

A rumble behind him caught his attention and he turned, blinded painfully by light brighter than the sun shining directly in his now night accustomed eyes. He raised a hand in front of his face and grimaced, his other hand snaking up with pistol firmly grasped.

A screeching bellow, a noise no mortal throat could possibly have made. He felt something looming before him, a vast shape barreling towards him. No fool, he sprinted aside and threw himself into a dive away from the barreling monstrousity, turning and focusing his pistol on the beast as it prepared to round and rend him...

Only it didn't turn. It kept on going. In the receding light he was able to make out large wheels, covered in strange blackness... shiny metal and a boxlike contraption behind it. He stood up slowly, pistol returning to its holster.

What on Azarath was that! Some sort of... machine? He recognized the wheels, his own world had wagons, only this mechanical contraption, from what he'd seen of it, had had no animals drawing it. Certainly there should have been, considering its bulk, a great train of them out ahead of it, but there was nothing. Nor had he been able to see a driver. He heard a sudden noise behind him and turned carefully, goggling in surprise and no small amount of fear as a smaller, sleeker version of the large monstrousity that had passed him earlier came into view, twin lamps burning like eyes in its low set front. He squinted against the glare, making out a vague shape inside the clear front of the vehicle before it whizzed past him, impossibly, dangerously fast, faster than any horse ever born could match. He watched it recede after its larger brethren.

Some sort of vehicle then. They seemed to follow the road and not deviating from it. In fact, he recalled how the lights of the vehicles had caught the paint and made it glow faintly, had shone on the raised glassy bumps. These seemed to be guiding markers of some kind, thus ensuring that the strange vehicles remained on the black ribbon as it wound towards the city before him.

What other marvels would he find on this world? What dangers that he had no inkling of could be menacing Rachel, with no possible way for him to even conceive of, let alone counter? He tried to imagine an eight year old from Azarath stranded alone in an alien place such as this and failed. His heart broke with both pain and a fierce, desperate pride.

Pain, that she had had to survive here alone.

Pride, that she had done so.

This more than anything else is what spurred him onward, pacing him alongside the road now, out of danger, his eyes warily tracking each new vehicle as they passed. They came in a variety of different shapes and colors, similar only in the tremendous speed at which they passed by. He gave up trying to find an explanation for them, simply accepting it as a mystery to be explored at a later date. Instead he turned his attention to the buildings as they loomed closer, gawking up at them with a stunned expression.

The press of people! In Azarath lamp oil and candles were expensive luxuries used only sparingly, and even then was more often to be found in the hands of priests. Her people were an industrious and hardworking sort, who went abed with nightfall (only prudent, when one considered the ever present attacks from Trigon's demons, hence the need for the Apocryphal Knights) and rose with the dawn. Not so here, apparently. Strange, tall lamps drove away the night like the very light of day, though the light had a strange harshness to it that bit his eyes and made his head throb anew. All manner of people, dressed in strange and wonderous looking fabrics, or... not so dressed, considering some of the females. Not even a street doxy would be caught in clothing so... revealing. He averted his gaze and blushed slightly.

They stared at him as though he were dressed no less strangely to their eyes, and he drew his hood up and lowered his head, his cloak pulled over his armor. Putting his hands on the butts of his guns under his cloak, he ran his thumbs carefully over the eyes etched into the satin smooth handles, covering them carefully and focusing his Ka on the Apocryphal Charm. The Pistol Charms still worked here, apparently, as people immediately lost interest in him, their eyes passing over him without lingering.

Of course this meant that the drivers also couldn't see him, as he discovered nearly to his extreme detriment when he tried to cross the street. After a few adrenaline charged moments, he was able to discern a pattern set by the strange lights which seemed to dictate the crossings of the street, and afterwards was conscientious about crossing only when so informed.

The shouted, whispered and muttered conversations around him held very little meaning for him, having no reference for many of the strange words they used. Still, what he could follow of them he did, his mind picking over what little information he could glean.

"Well my 401K is doing really well, but it puts me into a new tax bracket and-"

"So Jimmy called my Cell like, forty times in a one night, I finally had to C-mail him to get him to leave me-"

"Yeah it's a great game... the way you can just blow the heads off the terrorists with like, one shot is so cool-"

"Hey! Take your hands off me you freak!"

He recognized the tone, as well as the menacing hiss of words that followed it and the muffled sound of flesh striking flesh. He looked up, following a grimy dark clad individual pushing a young girl into an alley way, her panicked, fierce eyes searching the rest of the crowd. No one seemed to be paying attention to her distress, their eyes passing disinterestedly over the scene with almost bored nonchalance. Simon's eyes narrowed.

It took him some time to slip through the throng without bumping anyone harshly enough to catch their notice, but when he reached the alley it did not take much time to find them.

"I tol' you baby, you don't just take off without payin'. That makes my boss mad, an' when my boss gets mad, I get mad... and when I get mad..."

A crack of fist against flesh again. The woman collapsed onto her rump dazed, blood leaking sluggishly from one nostril. She sobbed dully.

"You fuckin' bastard."

"You know, you callin' me names is likely to get me upset. You wanna get me upset baby?" He reached under his jacket and pulled out a strange, vaguely revolver shaped hunk of black metal from the waist band of his trousers. Simon's eyes widened for a moment, then a scowl darted across his lips. He took his hands off of the butts of his guns and lowered his hood, his gloved hands coming slowly to a rest position at his sides.

The woman's eyes widened when the tall hooded stranger appeared seemingly from nowhere in the middle of the alley, his young face full of grim determination, a scowl on his lips. His hair was a startling shade of silver, not grey like that of the extremely old but a morefae, unnaturalmetallic color. No stranger to dyes, Francine could tell by the way his eyebrows matched and no roots showed that it was a natural hair color. His eyes were normal enough, a pale, icy blue. The expression in them was not.

It was indeadly earnest.

"Hey sugar! I'm fuckin' talkin' to you!" Joey slapped her again almost playfully, grinning slightly. "It ain't polite to ignore someone when they's talkin' to you." He pointed the 9 mm pistol in her face, the muzzle looking impossibly dark and huge in her wide, frightened gaze.

"Nor is it polite to accost a defenseless woman and threaten her with a weapon, sir, though that hardly seems to have stopped you." The man's voice was calm and clear but cold and full of threat.

Joey froze, then stood up slowly, cracking his neck carefully and rolling his shoulders. He didn't turn around. This was, after all, his turf. "Buddy, you'd best just move along, before you get yourself more fuckin' trouble than any whore is worth. If I have ta turn around, there's gonna be some blood in the streets."

"I would suggest you turn then, sir, and meet what is coming to you head on."

Something of the tone penetrated the cocky and overconfident thug's puny brain and he turned, his gun pointed vaguely towards the man behind him. Simon parted his cloak slowly and eased the edges around the holsters of his guns, revealing his intentions. His cold blue eyes stared into the thug's own muddy brown ones with startling finality. He didn't know what manner of Gunslinger turned a weapon on an innocent, but he would be damned if he would allow such a thing to happen in front of him.

Some half remembered incident from the movies flickered recognition in Joey's brain and he smirked. He raised his pistol up languidly, unimpressed with the Spectre before him. "What the hell do you think you are, kid? Some kinda Gunsl-"

A blurr of motion, so fast the man's arms seemed to wink in and out of existence. Two impossibly huge and long barreled archaic lookingsilvery revolvers appeared like magic in Simon's extended hands, thumbs cocking back thehammers with practiced and fluid ease. Joey blinked, his mouth dropping open andeyes widein goggling surprise as he found himself staring at a pair of dark holes like the headsofcoffin nails.

"Something to that effect, yes." Simon grinned coldly. It did not reach his eyes.

Joey did three things in rapid sucession, none of which Simon expected. One, he dropped his pistol, which clattered noisily on the ground. Two, he dropped to his knees, whimpering.

Three, he pissed himself.

Simon blinked.

"Please don't fuckin' kill me, Mister!"

"What... manner of Gunslinger are you?" Simon, stared intently at the man in front of him, then scowled. "No Gunslinger... who's gun did you steal, boy? Is he dead!" He tried to imagine a scenario in which the piece of filth in front of him might dispatched a Gunslinger. Likely ambushed from behind. Simon narrowed his eyes.

"I d-dunno what yer talkin' about, man! I lifted this offa pawn shop! 43rd and Vine man! I didn't kill nobody, an' I ain't no Gunslinger!"

"I can see that. You have no Ka to speak of." Simon lowered the hammers of his revolvers slowly, the twin weapons sliding fluidly back into their respective holsters.

"Ah shit... thank god! Man I was... urk!"

Joey's last bit of social commentary was delivered courtesy of the 2x4 Francine had broken upside his head. He collapsed into a puddle of blood and piss. Simon raised one silver eyebrow.

"Hardly chivalrous of you, miss."

She dropped the 2x4 on the unconscious punk and spit on him, digging through his pockets with singleminded efficiency. "Fuck chivalry. That son of a bitch took my money and hit me in the face... you know how hard it is to earn with a face like this?" She pointed at her bloody nose and split lip.

He raised an eyebrow. "I am pleased to say I do not."

Her eyes flicked up and down his lanky, leather clad form. She licked the blood from her split lip. "Yeah. I kinda get that impression."

Simon stared at her for a moment, then knelt down and picked up the pistol Joey had dropped turning it over in his hands.

She watched him curiously. "What's wrong, you never seen a Glock before?"

He frowned. "No, I have not. Where are the chambers?" He mused to himself. He found the top part slid easily and a single brass shape flipped out from a hole revealed in the center of it. He caught the shell in his hand and turned it over in his fingers. Musing to himself. He appeared so intent in his inspection that she found herself watching him with a bemused expression.

Boys and their toys.

"Hmm... excellent craftsmanship, if a trifle soulless... A soldier's weapon, not an artist's. A single round only?" He pushed the slide back again and was surprised when another round popped out. He opened it slowly this time and saw the bullets beneath. Turning the weapon again he found a small catch in the grip and the clip slid free. He looked at the skeptical hooker with the sort of pleasant grin that a child solving a riddle might adopt.

"Ingenious! How does it-"

"You ain't from around here, are ya handsome?"

He blinked at her.

* * *


	3. Choosing Your Ground

A/N: So here we are, chapter three of Stone Heart. I know several of you are wondering when I'll be getting the fucking point, but these things take time. I have to ease into this properly or it won't work. Suffice to say that I'm pretty happy with this chapter, even though Raven and the rest of the gang are pretty much absent. Calm down, calm down... they'll get their turn! I actually intended for them to have a large segment at the end but this chapter was running extremely long so I decided to start off the next chapter with the Titans. 

The shit is now hitting the fan, as you will see.

This just happened to be the first chapter I finished of the myriad of stuff I'm working on. Expect more chapters of What Evil Lurks, Going On, and maybe Why Me later in the week. I appologize for the long wait, it's just that I'm in a period of major transition right now. My little sister is getting married soon (Yay Dee!) and I don't even have a girlfriend, although that's by choice. I'm getting ready to leave Japan soon, transitioning out of the Navy and back into the civilian sector, and it wouldn't be fair to the theoretical girlfriend I'd have here if I started a relationship right now.

I'm both looking forward and dreading it... I mean, I haven't been a civilian since I was 18, and I've never had a full time job outside of the Navy. I like Florida and all, but it's gonna be rough, lemme tell you. Still, if I don't get out now, I probably won't get out until I've served my full 20 years and the navy is HARD on a relationship. I don't wanna be single or divorced and retired at the age of 38, which is how old I'd be if I stayed in the full 20 years it takes to earn retirement from the Navy.

It's time to move on.

In any case, I hope you enjoy this next chapter, and please, keep the feedback coming. Me like-y feedback, me like-y feedback!

* * *

"Never again will I be dishonored. And never again will I be reminded. Of living within the world of the jaded They kill inspiration, It's my obligation. To never again, allow this to happen. Where do I begin?. The choices are endless. Denying the sin. My art, my redemption. I carry the torch of my brothers before me. The thing I treasure most in life cannot be taken away. There will never be a reason why I will surrender to your advice. To change myself, I'd rather die. Though they will not understand. I will make the greatest sacrifice. You can't predict where the outcome lies. You'll never take me alive. I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive. Change again, cannot be considered. I rage again, dispelling my anger. Where do I begin? The choices are endless. My art, my redemption, my only salvation. I carry the gift that I have been blessed with. My soul is adrift in oceans of madness. Repairing the rift that you have created. I am not alone, brothers, give me your arms now." -Disturbed, I'm alive

* * *

A city is a living, breathing organism, her streets are arteries.

It is not so hard to imagine such a thing. Her face is her skyline, her tall buildings stretching out to the gods in mute appeal, a prideful exclamation. Look what we have created. Her ports and highways mouths to take in nutrients, her dumps and landfills hold the remains after she is finished with them.

Her police forces are her immune system, fighting the virus that preys upon her in the form of lawlessness and criminal activity.

Jump City is slowly recovering from a long bout of almost fatal illness.

This is not to say that the Teen Titans are ineffective. Far from it, seeing how far the city has come in such a short time is a testiment to how much the Teen Titans have done for her. Before their formation the city was without hope, well on its way to becoming another Bludhaven. Still, there is only so much a small team of teenaged super heroes can do. The major players in the ranks of the worlds most wretched examples of scum and villainy had been curtailed severely, but there is always, ALWAYS another scumbag with a psychosis and super powers willing to step up and get clobbered. While your average punk spends at least a small portion of his day looking fearfully over his shoulder at that long T shaped shadow being cast over their actions, it is safe to say that there are still portions of Jump City where it is not safe to walk around at night. Slums, projects, the ghetto, call it what you will. It is that blemish on the face of an otherwise beautiful lady, a stain, deeper than the skin. Jump City's leading men and women might occasionally try to beautify it with monuments and better schools, but that's just like shellacking makeup on an otherwise unsightly eyesore.

The truth of it, the desperation, the fear, and most importantly, the hopelessness, cuts through.

Ugliness shows through the cracks. Not physical ugliness, but the worst aspect of human nature.

The ability to see other humans as pointless objects.

Of course Simon had no concept of the scale of such things, though he was familiar with the more base aspects of human nature. Although largely ascetic, austere and removed from most common concerns about materialism, the Apocryphal Knights were also a warrior order. Each Knight went through a journeyman period alone, traveling the wilds and frontiers of Azarath, fighting back the demonic hordes as they found them, but also filling the role of judge, jury, and executioner, in some cases. Azarath, under constant struggle with the forces of darkness, had never developed a large enough population to need more than the simple justice a good man with a gun each hand can provide. Which is not to say that the Gunslingers were incorruptable, but in such cases the Litany of the Gun was clear, those who became corrupt were taken down like the dogs they were.

Azarath had had her share of whores, her criminals, her murderers and thieves mixed in with her upstanding citizens. Usually the presence of a Gunslinger was enough to forstall any real conflicts. It was just plain common sense. After all, these were men who stood toe to toe with demons, and had done so for centuries. They had a reputation as death dealers, no, as death incarnate. Why dance with death? Still, desperation has a habit of pushing man to attempt the seemingly impossible. Simon had only ever had to draw his guns once upon a human being in Azarath, and in that instance, hadn't had to fire them. He had never encountered human corruption on a scale quite like he was seeing now, but he WAS familiar with it.

The lobby of the apartment complex was shabby and covered in unindentifiable stains. The smell of piss and cheap alcohol permeated the air. Several winos had chosen this place to make their bed for the night... it wasn't heated, but it was dry and somewhat warmer than outside, and any place is better than nothing. The front desk was unmanned again, which was hardly surprising. In fact, Francine couldn't recall seeing the sneaky eyed bastard for quite some time. It was entirely possible that he had become another unpleasant smell leaking from inside one of the rundown rooms.

Not that Francine would bother to check.

She scowled when she saw that her mailbox had been forced open (again). fortunately she knew the post man, and in exchange for certain (ahem) favors, she got anything important delivered directly to her apartment. Not that she got much. If they wanted the junkmail and stupid sears catalogues that bad, they could fuckin' have em.

Not like she had a whole lotta money to pay for that stuff anyway.

Her hard eyes softened as they traveled over the lanky form following her. He didn't bother to conceal his curiousity, his eyes flicking over each detail with studious appraisal. She wondered what this strange man must think, seeing this place. What planet he came from, she didn't know, but it was damn sure he wasn't from around here. Of course, one look at him and you got that. He looked like a cross between an old Clint Eastwood flick and some fantasy novel with orcs and demons and stuff. She didn't know what possessed her to offer him a place to stay for the night... it wasn't like her to bring in strays. Granted this particular stray had probably saved her livelihood, if not her life, but he'd ALSO gotten her into alot of trouble. When Joey's boss heard about this whole incident, her life was probably going to get a helluva lot rougher.

Still there was something attractive about the lost pup vibe she was getting from him. Kinda like a country boy new to the city and just finding out how callous people can be.

She stepped inside the ragged elevator that lead to her floor (it was working for once). She hit the button and only then realized that Simon had stopped dead in his tracks. The door started to close and she slapped it back open, looking at him quizzically.

He looked back at her, his eyes warily looking the small room she'd stepped into.

"Come on, honey. It ain't gonna bite."

Simon wasn't too sure about that... strange blinking lights and doors that opened like magic certainly didn't put him at ease. Still, Francine was beginning to get annoyed with him, and she didn't look overly concerned. He stepped inside and tentatively looked around, confused as to what the room was supposed to do.

Francine let the doors close. After a start, the elevator started up. Simon jumped and glanced around uneasily. He could feel the room... MOVING.

The movement stopped and the doors opened. Simon blinked.

The view outside the room had changed. He stepped out cautiously, looking around.

"Where..." He started.

She sighed. "You are such a rube. It's an elevator, you mook!"

He raised an eyebrow.

She scowled at him. "You gotta be shittin' me."

He crossed his arms. "You have a very foul mouth, milady."

Her eyebrow twitched.

He continued on as though oblivious to her irritation.

"Sufficed to say, this will likely not be the last time culture shock rears its ugly head. As you so delicately pointed out, I am newly arrived here, and very little of what I have seen thus far is familiar to me. I apologize for my imposition, but if I might make a suggestion, simply assume that I am as ignorant as a newborn child in matters such as "elevators" and those box-like contraptions that run pell mell through the streets, and we will both be better served."

She grumbled under her breath. "Man, you're lucky I'm takin' English correspondence courses, or I might not 'a gotten about one word in five of what you just said. Where you from, anyway?"

He looked away, closing his eyes for a moment, before opening them and regaining his polite facade. "I doubt very much that you will have heard of it. As it no longer exists in any inhabitable form, it hardly matters in any case."

She blinked, looking somewhat sympathetic. "You mean like Superman?"

He blinked. "Who?"

She shook her head. Never heard of Superman. Everybody has heard of Superman. "Nevermind. Look... about what you did for me earlier..."

He drew himself up slightly. "I may no longer be on Azarath, but I see no distinction between the innocent of one world and that of another. It is my duty to protect the weak from Tyrants."

She scowled again. "Look, first off, I ain't no innocent. Second, if you think you made things easy for me, if you think you saved me, you're a damn idiot." She sighed.

"Joey is a prick, but he's a gutless prick. As soon as he recovers, the first thing he's going to do is go run to his boss an' tell him some new guy is musclin' in on his girls, and then my name ain't worth shit in this dump. You gotta clear out of here as soon as possible. You don't want that kinda trouble, mister."

"So this, Joey, is merely a servant of some greater lord?"

Simon inquired, following behind the scantily clad streetwalker with his gaze flicking over the strange construction of the walls. Endless doors painted a drab brown with a small hole in their center and a simple number in corroded brass over each door, in some cases merely the shadowed imprint where a brass figure had once stood.

She wrinkled her nose at the thought. "Santiago would prob'ly like you callin' him a lord, but he's pretty nickel and dime as far as the local crime bosses go." She shuddered. "He ain't no Slade, that's fer sure."

He raised an eyebrow. "What of your gunslingers?"

She turned and raised an eyebrow. "Wha-?"

He shook his head. "Forgive me. This place is strange to me and it is unwise to assume that things will be here as they were... where I came from. You say this, Santiago, is a criminal. Surely you have some authority to whom you can turn for Justice?"

She snorted. "Right. I just waltz on in to the nearest police station an' tell em I'm upset 'cause some local thug tried to muscle in on my earnings. Hello... do you honestly mean to tell me you don't have whores where you come from?"

He raised an eyebrow. "What does prostitution have to do with criminality? Why should something that can be given freely without persecution be grounds for punishment when it is sold?"

She blinked. "Yer kiddin' right?"

"I do not see what children have to do with this. It is not the most honorable profession, certainly, but it is no crime."

"Well it ain't like that here, lemme tell you. An' even if the cops cared about what Santiago was doin', they can't do nothin' to him. He's got connections."

Simon stared at her blankly, as though he had no concept of what any of that meant.

"Look just trust me on this, when it comes to Santiago, I'm on my own. I'll deal with it, but you gotta clear out. I can probably talk him into-"

"That, milady, is where you are mistaken." Simon said firmly. "Santiago is a criminal, who uses ruffians and fear to get what he wants. He has turned himself into a petty tyrant, one who thinks himself above retribution, if he does not fear what pass for law in this benighted city. I cannot ignore this." He bowed his head.

"Again, forgive my imposition, but I would be unworthy of my guns if I allowed you to suffer for my actions. You have my word as an Apocryphal Knight, and the Last of the Crimson Hand, that I will protect you from harm."

She stared at him, leaning against her door. "You're fuckin' crazy."

He shrugged slightly, and she wasn't sure if he meant it as an acknowledgement or a dismissal.

Bonk.

She leaned her forehead against her door. Bonk. Bonk. "Motherfucker."

He frowned. "Must you?"

She ignored him for a moment, then rounded on him fiercely. "Look, I don't WANT your help, DAMMIT! You got lucky Joey is a pansy little son of a bitch, the kinda guys Santiago is gonna send after you are in a completely different league! We're talking guys who enjoy hurting folks an' don't mind killin' if they think they can get away with it!"

"Your logic is flawed, milady. The same sort of man who enjoys the pain and suffering of others will inflict it regardless of wrong or injury. If they seek me out and their only possible trail leads them to your doorstep, what is to prevent them from indulging themselves upon your person? If life is so worthless in the eyes of Santiago, that he would hire the sort of man who kills at only the slightest of provocations, what makes you think that he will keep his dogs safely muzzled? Even if you can convince them that you are innocent of any transgression, what would prevent them from taking whatever they wanted from you, just from sheer spite? Do you want that?"

She looked down. "I do what I gotta do."

He raised her face with one gauntleted finger on her chin. "You do not have to endure this. I am here to protect you. I also, do what I must do."

She narrowed her eyes at him, then jerked her face away and fumbled with her key in the lock, her small shoulders tight and trembling.

"Fine. See if I care. It's your funeral"  
She opened the door and stepped inside, not waiting for him to respond. He turned slightly and raised his cloak's hood, leaning his back against the wall next to her door.

"What the fuck are you doing!" She growled at him from inside.

"I shall remain vigilant, and I have imposed upon you far too much already. Do not concern-"

She grabbed his arm and yanked him into the room, or tried to, at any rate. He might be a lanky fellow, but damn if he wasn't like a stone statue when he didn't want to be moved.

"Get your stupid ass in here, what the hell are you thinking!"

Reluctantly, he shuffled into her apartment, his cool blue gaze flicking to various articles of furniture with wary appraisal. It was a small, three room apartment, sparsely furnished. Not that this was particularly unpleasant to Simon. As an Apocryphal Knight he was far removed from material concerns, and had lived most of his early life in a communial barracks with 30 other initiates, followed by bouts of sleeping in the lofts or out of the way places of grateful townsfolk, or out under the stars during his travels, having only recently acquired a single ten by ten foot spartan cell in the Temple of Spirit as befitting a newly appointed knight) A cardtable, a couple of metal folding chairs, a small couch and a 14'' TV made up the extent of her living room/kitchen arrangement, the linoleum of the kitchen yellowed and cracked (although scrupulously clean) and the thin brown carpeting worn and threadbare in places. She gave him a quick, appraising look of her own, then put her hands on her hips and scowled at him.

"You stay here, and don't touch nothin' till I get back. You got that?"

He nodded shortly. "I do."

She wrinkled her nose. "On second thought, why don't you take off all that leather... you smell like-"

He flicked his gaze at her. "Death?" He whispered.

His gaze was unnervingly intense... as though pain hid just below the surface of those blue orbs. She blinked.

"I was gonna say a bum, but..."

He turned away from her, after a moment, removed his cloak. The black leather that encased his chest creaked sullenly. She turned away and retreated to her bedroom.

He had changed into and out of his armor so much that his fingers though exhausted, moved across the laces and buckles with easy familiarity, removing first the gauntlets and gun belts, then his deceptively small travel pouch, then undoing the straps that held his bracers and breastplate, then finally the guards on his thighs and lower legs. Time for him had stopped ten years ago, and the spattering of gore and the smell of terror and anger still clung to his dark brown cotton pants and black under tunic.

She came back before he had an opportunity to brood overly much and surprised him by throwing a cotton towel and washcloth at him. He caught them, looking somewhat confused and she shook her head.

"You probably don't know what the hell a shower is, so I'm gonna teach you. Take my word for it, you need to get cleaned up."

She led him back into the bathroom, showing him how to work the faucets and adjust the temperature (a fact that made him google eyed in surprise.). He shook his head mystified at such wonders. Warm water for washing that didn't require heating and pouring into a tiny basin? For that matter, a tub of such size it should have been reserved for royalty? He shook his head.

"I do not warrant such luxury-"

"Can it will ya? You ever stay in a first class joint, it'll make you cry ta think what I got is anything special. Just clean yourself. Please."

She slammed the door behind her.

He stripped slowly, his back still aching from his descent earlier, and stepped under the spray, closing his eyes tiredly.

He took a long look at his situation. The Mental Fields allowed one to objectify their emotions, to put one's self in a state of focus removed from earthly or emotional concerns. To set aside what was unimportant to the now, cast it into the void, and obtain icy control and unwavering concentration. It was not intended to be used as a way of casting aside emotions that were too painful, too raw and sharp to deal with forever. With some trepidation, he allowed himself to reflect upon his circumstance.

Anger. Pain. Guilt. Remorse. Sadness. Despair. These things struck him like physical blows, doubling him over and nearly forcing him to his knees.

The yawning gulf of this reality struck him, a longing he knew he could never fill. Azarath, his home, the country for which he would have gladly laid down his life for, was no more. He had failed his brothers and sisters, Trigon had destroyed their home and made their sacrifice pointless and dishonored; forgotten. No one was left to remember them, save him. That he lived and they died struck him as a vast injustice. Names and faces flitted past his closed eyes and he sobbed uncontrollably.

Too raw. The hurt was too raw, and he had so much left to do. He bottled himself up again, and focused on the mundane task of cleansing himself. He had gotten himself entangled in affairs he was fast beginning to realize could become a quagmire of violence if not handled properly, and he had no sure footing. This world was so alien to him that he could find no center, no point of balance with which to deal with it.

He needed guidance. An omen, perhaps.

The Apocryphal Knights had originally been founded as an order to protect the Spirit Caste, who's connection to the Veils disconnected them from earthly concerns and made them vulnerable to harm from more secular sources. The Sorcerors who had rent the Veil of Worlds fleeing their ravaged home plane who raided into Azarath were the first enemies those first knights had fought, back in those misty early days when they were knights in the traditional sense of the word, they fought with sword and shield and wore heavy metal armor. Those knights were long gone, victims of their own inability to change, though their name for those of their brothers who abandoned the old ways and took up the gun had stayed with the Gunslingers for all time. Those traditional Knights had called the radical new sect who took up revolver and charm Followers of Apocrypha, or Apocryphal Knights.

The word Apocryphal literally meant false writings or teachings.

As with many things in their history, the Gunslingers shouldered this accusation with quiet dignity and strength, and in so doing, survived to turn it into a mark of honor rather than one of shame. It was their willingness to adapt to new situations and heed the advice of the Spirit Caste which ensured their ultimate survival.

As time progressed, the two orders, Knight and Spirit Caste, formed a symbiotic relationship, and the Spirit caste of Simon's time had learned to be more secular (they could defend themselves after a fashion) while the Gunslingers had picked up all manner of charms and minor enchantments that made them the feared and respected guardians they had become. When in desperation the Sorcerors raised one of their legion to a demonic status, it was the Spirit caste who managed to bind that being to a shadow realm, at least temporarily, along with the myriad of demonic creations the Sorcerors foul experiments had managed to produce in the interrim. While this was happening, the Gunslingers had toed the line and held the dark forces back long enough for the Spirit Caste to do its work.

A saying among Gunslingers, actually a battle chant in High Azarath, spoke of the truth learned on that day.

"Ayed y Mortais procuri monare; y procur'e benefis"

"Life is the only coin I own, I will spend it well."

What had the coin of his brothers and sisters bought?

He had to know. Had to find out what task he had been spared to complete, that could possibly benefit anyone.

Only the Gods had answers for him. Fortunately he knew how to ask the questions.

* * *

Francine stared at the phone in mute indecision, biting her lip. The stranger had left after only a quick shower and a brief interrogation as to the location of Santiago and his goons. Now, alone in her apartment, she found herself hesitating to do what she knew she had to do to survive.

-You can't trust nobody to look after ya Francine. People that give just get taken. There ain't no such thing as a whore with a heart of gold.- Of course that didn't change the fact that this felt like betrayal.

-It's your only way out. That stranger is gonna piss some people off and you don't wanna get caught in the middle.-

She picked up the phone and falteringly dialed a number. After a few moments a surly voice answered.

"Yeah, what do ya want?"

"Bobby, it's Francine. Put Joey on the phone."

After a brief pause, Joey answered the phone. He sounded annoyed.

"You fuckin' bitch, I swear ta god, when I get ahold-"

"That Gunslinger guy is headed over there Joey. He's headed over there and he wants to have a talk with Mr. Santiago. You think Mr. Santiago wants to have a conversation with that lunatic unannounced? Who do you think he's gonna blame when the shit goes down?"

Joey was silent for several beats, then he hung up.

She pulled her legs up to her chest and rested her head on them.

She didn't cry.

* * *

The Chaser was a moderately sized Stripclub with several private rooms and a dance floor. It wasn't EXACTLY a strip club, at least, not on paper. Strip clubs were strictly enforced in Jump City, and had to pay all kinds of well meant but hardly effective taxes in order to do business. In order to get around this little ordinance, The Chaser had a dance floor and a pretty kickin' DJ. Things got a little wild in there, and the owners of the bar could hardly be held responsible for the antics of a few happy people. So what if the same several girls danced on the same few tables, removing their clothes in seemingly drunken revelry? So what if drunken assholes decided that they should have a little cash shoved down their panties? It was really not worth the headache and the effort to convict a man like Santiago.

Besides, the Police Force had bigger fish to fry. At least, that's what most of the upper brass had to say on the subject.

Anybody who knew anything knew the Chaser for what it was; the headquarters of Santiago's similiarly modest operation. Santiago was small fry, ambitious, but too small for one of the more established Criminal Organizations to bother with. These organizations also had bigger fish to fry... sharks, actually. Between men like Slade and Brother Blood, and the heroic antics of the Teen Titans, it could be said ulcers were something of a professional hazard among crime bosses of Jump City. The Chaser was a minor fortress, prostitution, drugs, extortion, all of these things had roots in the Chaser. Santiago was a firm believer in the multiple fingers in multiple pies principle.

Uncharacteristically, the Chaser was empty at the moment. Joey's call had caught Santiago in the middle of a bit of business. Santiago had been waiting for a break like this... and it couldn't have come at a more opportune moment. It wasn't every day that representatives from the Yakuza got an opportunity to watch you deal with a no-name upstart of a hero. This was the sort of meeting where reputations were made, and Santiago wanted it to go down perfectly.

The Yakuza were not informed. No need to spook them, after all. This hero was gonna show up during a major drug deal and get his ass kicked, he would be dealt with efficiently and quickly with a minimal fuss. The Yakuza agent and his men would see this and be suitably impressed. He didn't worry about how the Yakuza would deal with his foreknowledge of the event. The Japanese appreciated a good gamble, after all. Santiago won, the Yakuza won, and the only one who lost was some freak in a stupid costume.

To that effect, his whole gang of goons were in place in the private rooms and armed to the teeth. Some thirty men, plus the eight he had on the floor, and the nine Yakuza with their lieutenant, and this gunslinger asshole didn't have a prayer.

He'd almost felt sorry for the kid.

Almost.

The deal was going down in fine style, but Santiago and his men were nervous and twitchy, and this translated into making the Yakuza nervous and twitchy, meaning that a whole lotta men with twitchy trigger fingers were watching one another and waiting for the wrong move. Santiago gritted his teeth inwardly. If Joey was wrong about this, he was gonna kick that little worm's ASS. Then kill him.

Then kick his ass AGAIN.

That was when one of his men gasped. Everyone turned and stared in google eyed surprise at the midnight cloaked figure standing in their midst. Santiago did a double take, inwardly furious. His security guys upstairs should have caught this guys entrance on the large and goddamn expensive security system he'd installed. Why the FUCK was this asshole standing in the middle of HIS club like he'd justed walked in off the street? What the hell did he pay those assholes for!

The stranger was tall, easily six feet, and swathed head to toe in a dark blue cloak. He stood with his hands relaxed and loose next to two silvery and etched old fashioned I'll-be-god-damned revolvers... hand cannons that Santiago had seen reproduced in old Western movies, only those reproductions paled against the reality. The backs of his thick gloves and his forearms winked dully in what Santiago at first thought were small brass sequins, but what he later realized were in fact rows and rows of bullets. He was lean and rangy and stood in an easy stance that any kid who'd ever watched TV would recognize. The cloak's hood was up and so deep that the upper part of the stranger's face could not be seen. His chest was encased in a thin layer of what looked like leather, not entirely unlike what some of his more adventurous clients paid women to wear when they beat them, but the mouth and nose were covered in a thick cloth similar to the midnight blue cloak.

"Which one of you is Mr. Santiago?" The voice was quiet, but rang with authority. The tone was familiar to Mr. Santiago, and he didn't place it at first.

"I am." He snapped contritely, thrown off his game a bit. When he realized what it was about the man's tone that got him he narrowed his eyes. The kid sounded like a judge.

Santiago hated judges.

"Who the FUCK do you t'ing you are, kid!" He roared, his accent becoming stronger in his anger. "Comin' inna my place like dis?" He stood up and his men in the room pointed guns at the stranger. The Yakuza watched quietly, their expressions neutral. They seemed content to let Santiago handle his business.

The cloaked figure shifted his weight slightly, his hooded head turning first slowly left, then slowly right.

"In my world you would not have dared to conduct your business so openly. Your kind is a sickness. A parasite who feeds off the misery and pain of others, and I will not suffer your existence."

Santiago laughed and after a short time his men followed suit. "I know your type. You t'ing you come in 'ere, teach me lesson, eh? You do a fine job protectin' putas, but you don' know shet about this place, man. You should no' have trusted no bitches man, they play you for a fool every time." He snapped his finger and the private rooms burst open, lining the second tier of the club with men armed with automatic weapons. The yakuza looked strained and angry, but made no move to interrupt Santiago.

The stranger didn't move.

"Not so high and mighty now, eh?" Santiago laughed.

"A mongrel who surrounds himself with other mongrels is still a cur." The man said blandly. "But this is not my world, and I hesitate to step upon the authority of those who govern this place. Therefore I offer you an option I would not normally consider. Surrender your arms and submit to justice, and I will not tear your works down around you."

Santiago continued to laugh, wiping a tear from his face as he continued. He shook his head. "You very foony eh? Keel dis pinche pito de pitufo." He nodded shortly to his guards. Several slides racked and hammers cocked.

After the whole thing was over with, Santiago would later mutter in his crazed, feverish rantings that he'd never seen the man move. The man seemed to flicker in and out of existence. The first hint that anything was going wrong was when the sides of the man's cloak flipped out wide like wings on either side of him. Before any of the men could pull the triggers of their weapons, in that split instant between the brain sending impulses to their fingers to jerk and fill the stranger with lead, the stranger's hands slipped free from his sides with guns magically in them and a sound like a god's hammer smote the air. A single action revolver has an interesting characteristic that modern weapons are incapable off. If the trigger is held down, when the hammer is pulled back then released it automatically advances the cylinder and lets the hammer drop. This manuever is known as "fanning the hammer" and normally involved holding the revolver in one hand and slapping down and back repeatedly with the other. This is the closest an old fashioned revolver can come to a semi-automatic weapon in terms of rps or "rounds per second".

Simon actually pulled the weapons out and fanned both hammers with his thumbs, getting off three shots with each weapon before the first few cracks of the automatic and semi-automatic weapons could even begin. Five men, three on Santiago's right side and two on his left, dropped their weapons and clutched various wounds in their arms, and one man collapsed onto his back, screaming and trying to clutch a wound in both his right arm and his left at the same time. Both of his uzi's dropped to the floor spraying bullets wildly into the upper tier. Shouts of pain followed their path up.

Simon stretched his legs out and crouched down low, so low, in fact, that he appeared to be doing the splits but the bottoms of his boots still made contact with the floor. As he did this he spun like a protractor would across a map on one leg to the left, his left boot never lifting from the ground. He did this so fast that his cloak flared out around him, making him appear three times bigger than he actually was. His revolvers turned with him, pointing backwards and upside down. Two more shots and one man collapsed with both of his knees blown out, screaming his head off like a girl.

A cloud of lead passed through the location where Simon had been. He spun quickly again, now facing them and charging forward, his pistols crossing and spent shells tinkling on the floor as he reloaded both pistols.

While it might sound impossible that any of this could happen, one has to understand that all of these actions took place in the space of less than four seconds. Add to that the strange effect the whipping of his cloak was having on obscuring his location, the randomness of his movements, and the fact that a black powder pistol puts out a cloud of smoke so thick it obscures a whole room in only a few shots, and you can understand how this took place.

Simon had entered a state the Gunslingers referred to as "Ghost Feet". Not all Gunslingers were capable of such a skill, because it required an openness of mind that few men could allow of themselves. Literally, Simon had given over control of his feet to Something Else... he had no conscious control over his movements and dodges... he moved by random spinning and bouncing, completely one with his location, his guns, and the bullets that flickered across the room. He WAS, however, surprised and amazed at the sheer VOLUME of fire coming his way.

Santiago watched as the stranger, trailing smoke and a path of bullet holes tearing up his floor, bounced like a top struck by another into a spin on top of one of the tables, breaking it and stepping lightly to another, breaking that and following its toppling motion to the ground, then flipping against the wall, UP the wall several steps, across the room sliding on the slick dancefloor and the drinks that had been spilled from the tables he'd upset onto the bar, down the path of the bar hooking an elbow around one of the dancers poles and doing a graceful spin around the pole all the way down the the floor that would have made his most nimble dancer green with envy.

He was firing and reloading during ALL of this.

Even when his back was turned.

This was not Equilibrium's gun kata. Gun kata wasn't even close. It was random and primal and terrifying. It was speed and death and a force of nature, like a hurricane of sharp movements and graceful spinning.

His men started dropping like flies, a chorus of pain and misery. Some of his men were dead, shot up in the crossfire as they desperately tried to follow the movements of the whirling gunfighter. Most, those who the gunslinger himself had dropped, were clutching bloody, grievous wounds in limbs and shoulders.

At the end the room was completely obscured in white smoke that stank of sulphur. The room was a cacophony of moans and screams.

Santiago sat stunned at his booth, several completely still Yakuza standing around him. None of them had drawn weapons, although their leader had said something that to Santiago's stunned brain sounded like Kama-Sutra or something. He blinked, then raised his Beretta, peering into the smoke.

A loud click echoed ominiously out in the room somewhere.

He winced as though he'd been shot, then dropped the pistol on the table. The click sounded again, and then silence.

Booted feet echoed on the torn up wood and bloodsoaked carpet, glass crackled under foot, and then the stranger appeared out of the gloom like a shark appears up from the depths of the sea, sudden but languidly slow, a killer's rise.

The revolvers were holstered. His blue cloak was tattered and hung from him in ribbons, the victim of angry lead bees that had been buzzing him during the whole combat.

He stopped, staring at each of the frozen Yakuza in turn.

"You didn't draw your weapons. Why?"

The lieutenant stood up stiffly and bowed once, pale but completely composed. "With all due respect to Santiago-san, this is not our responsiblity. We are guests in his house, it would be..." He paused. "Shameful for us to defend ourselves in his home. You are not our enemy..." He blinked, then added cautiously... ominiously. "Yet."

Simon folded his arms. "If you were doing business with this man, then likely you are my enemy... but not tonight. You may leave, or you may join these men. Choose."

The Japanese man bent low at the waist in a display of extreme deference, then barked something in a harsh tone. The men followed suit and left the bar, vanishing into the gloom.

Santiago giggled. "You're a fooking idiota, man. Those little fookers are a thousand times worse than me..."

Simon regarded Santiago quietly. "I suspect you are right, but it would be dishonorable for me to strike a foe who refused to fight back. I did not come for them."

Santiago blinked. "You mean all I had to do to not get my bar all shot up was not fight at all?"

Simon sighed. "I did give you the option, if you remember. You chose this course."

Santiago began to giggle again. His eyes wildly darted around the room as though they sought to escape his head. The smoke was beginning to clear, and the moans and screams of his men die down to whimpers and gasps. His bar was a wreck. It looked as though a war had been fought here.

Simon stepped very close, regarded the giggling crime boss for several seconds, then reached out and slapped him so hard with his heavy gauntleted hand that his head rocked back into the seat. Blood pattered thickly from his nose and mouth onto his white pants and the table top. Simon held a small crystal vial under the flow until it was full, then stoppered it and slipped it into one of the empty loops on his belt.

He turned and began to stride away.

Santiago blinked, then stood up and screamed at him.

"You do all of theese for THAT! For a whore? Miserable PUTA! She betray you, you crazy fooker! She call and rat you out you son of a beech!"

"I know." The gunslinger never turned around. He stooped and began to pick up several objects off of the ground. He did this both insanely quickly, and with a languid sort of grace that said he could probably do it quicker if he was in a hurry. "I told her to. I also told her to call whatever passes for the authorities in this benighted city."

Santiago blinked, his eyes widen and unseeing. Already he could hear sirens in the distance. His eyes darted to the pistol on the table. The strangers back was turned...

He darted for it, then heard a click. He found himself staring down the barrel of one of those impossibly huge revolvers.

The gunslinger wasn't even looking at him.

He sat down, put his head in his hands and started to cry.

The sirens got louder. The gunslinger finished whatever he was doing and dragged a table to the center of the room through all the writhing, moaning men on the ground. Uprighting it in the center of the dance floor, he carefully set two small brass objects on it.

Then he vanished. In plain sight. One moment he was there, the next, he simply wasn't.

Santiago looked up, his eyes darting about again. Like the rat he was.

He didn't try to run, however.

He knew the gunslinger was watching him.

* * *


	4. Omens and Portents

A/N: So.. um. How you been? Cool, cool. Let me just say that seperating from the military sucks balls. There is so much crap you have to do, it's all I can do to write ANYTHING. That being said, here's the next chapter of Stone Heart. I hope you all enjoy it. Hmmm... well, not much to report. I have a brother in law, but he and my sister have been effectively married for years now, they just finally made it official. There's something poignant about watching your younger sister walk down the aisle. I'm very happy for her, but it made me feel old and not entirely successful.

I mean, at the whole relationship game. Still, I guess the military does that to you. Things will change when I get to Florida. I have every hope and confidence that they will.

So enough about me. The devil is in the details, and there's... well, alot of detail in this one, lemme say. Omens and portents and strange things going down at the Chaser.

I REALLY like this story... I enjoy writing it, and I hope you enjoy reading it. In any case, I switch tenses at certain points during this chapter to denote that what is taking place isn't what is in the scene. I tried italicizing the affected portions of the story so people won't get confused. Hopefully it works.

Nonsensical? That'll teach me to write author's notes at 5 in the morning.

Meh.

* * *

"All your eyes have ever seen. All you've ever heard, is etched upon my memory. Spoken through my words. All that I take with me, is all you've left behind. We're sharing one eternity, living in two minds. Linked by an endless thread, impossible to break." Act I Scene 3- Through My Words, Dream Theater

* * *

Robin was not a particularly deep sleeper.

If anyone asked him to recount his dreams the morning after, he would be hard pressed to tell them anything. It wasn't that he forgot them, it was simply that his dreams fell into two categories. They were either so mindnumbingly boring that only a serious glutton for punishment would listen to them, or they were so personal that he wouldn't reveal them to anyone. Not even Bruce.

Especially not Bruce. Batman was a mentor, a father figure, a measurement of worth. He was not a shoulder to cry on. Or one to tell your problems to.

Unless your problems could be arrested or beaten into lawfulness that is. Preferably both.

A murder so many years ago had ensured that. It was as though a part of his developement had died then, and been replaced with a cold, sure, implacable need for justice. Or perhaps revenge. The Just thing and the Right thing to do sadly don't always equal the same thing.

Justice is blind, after all.

Which is not to say that Robin did not respect and, after a fashion, love Bruce. He just couldn't stand the man. Mainly because he wasn't a man at all, he was a force of nature, a sort of justice personification. Despite his own personal tragedy, Robin just couldn't agree with everything the Dark Knight believed in.

In any case, as previously stated, Robin was not a deep sleeper, and as such, the tinny sound of his communicator speaking up caught his attention instantly. Coming to full awareness in only a few seconds, he sat up in his bed in the dark and hit the button.

"I'm listening." He said simply.

A smooth baritone voice tickled his ear. His eyes widened imperceptably. "Sorry to call so late, Robin. You said you wanted us to call immediately if we had a need for you guys, and unfortunately crime don't wait 'til after we've had our coffee."

Detective Michael Washington sounded tired, but in command. He was a good cop. One of the best.

Robin frowned. "It's not an emergency or you would have sounded the Titan alarm. What else would you need us for?"

Sergeant Washington sighed for a moment, and Robin could almost hear him rubbing the bridge of his nose. "We've got a mess down here... you're just gonna have to come and see for yourself. Something here don't add up, and I have a hunch there might be..."

He was silent for a moment, as though listening to someone Robin couldn't hear. "Just, get down here when you can, ok?"

"Alright Sarge... we'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"Don't rush or nothin'. Take your time, this mess ain't going no where."

Robin smiled tersely. "See you in fifteen."

"Right."

The communicator went dead.

Robin was up and dressed in less than two minutes.

* * *

Raven, on the other hand, slept very soundly. In her case, however, it wasn't so much a tiredness as an overly strong connection to her dreams. Her blood and heritage combined to make her dreams frighteningly real and prophetic... she couldn't control them. 

Sometimes, after a particularly vivid nightmare, she woke up with bruises. Once she had awakened with a two inch gash in her left thigh. It was fortunate that her blood also ensured that she would heal quickly and without scarring.

Physical scarring anyway.

Tonight she was having a particularly vivid... dream? Nightmare? She wasn't entirely sure. Certainly there was something unsettling about it, but it was not the typical gloom and doom, with people turning to stone, and Trigon coming to destroy all that was good in the world, not that sort of dream at all.

She was frankly getting tired of those.

No, this dream was different. If she had to label it as anything, it was just plain confusing. In it, she was standing in a circle of men, obviously thugs of some sort, who pointed and laughed at her. She turned every which way, but the circle was too tight, she simply couldn't get out, nor could she force them away with her powers. Suddenly, without her conscious control, she began to dance.

Never in her LIFE had she ever danced like this, she was frankly impressed and more than a little shocked. Where had she picked this up? Furthermore, why was she dancing for a bunch of thugs? Unlike most people, Raven had a singularly tight control of her subconscious, which of course meant that when it ran rampant all hell broke lose. In any case, the men surrounding her began to stop pointing and laughing one by one, turning away from her and walking into the mists that surrounded them.

Soon enough, there were only 9 men remaining. These men solemnly began clapping, then as one, bowed and walked away. There was a hint of sarcasm in their faces, and in the tempo of their applause, as though they were mocking her.

As she stood in the mists alone, two golden coins dropped from above, landing with an intensely musical sound at her feet. They rotated slowly on the ground, until both came to rest on heads.

She was just bending over to examine the intensely familiar face on one of the coins when a buzzing sound woke her up suddenly. She groaned and put her pillow over her head.

"Raven..." A voice through the door. It sounded like Robin.

"Go away, Boy Wonder. I'll kill you in the morning."

"I'm afraid this can't wait, Rae."

She blinked. "You really DO have a death wish, don't you?"

Nevertheless, she slowly got out of bed and then compensated by hurriedly changing from her pajamas into her leotard and cloak.

* * *

Thirteen minutes later found the T-Car and R-Cycle pulling up next to the Chaser. This was a part of town that was patrolled regularly by the Titans, and they were frankly shocked at the sheer number of police cars lined up outside. Cops didn't come uptown all that often. The effect of a police car in this part of town was something akin to the effect of a kitchen light turning on in a house infested with roaches. This was a testiment to how much the Titans had done for Jump City, since less than ten years ago a squad car was liable to get shot at uptown. 

Stepping out into the cool night air, Robin and the rest of the Titans made their way towards the Chaser. Beast Boy stared intently at the rather rude neon sign out front until Cyborg elbowed him hard enough to make him stumble. The green elf rubbed his arm and gave the metal teen a dirty look, which was ignored.

Detective Washington was a large burly bald man with dark skin and a bushy mustache over thick lips. He was currently downing a steaming cup of coffee. Crushing the paper cup in his huge fist, he tossed it without looking at a rookie officer, who juggled it awkwardly for a few seconds and then quickly whisked it away. The Detective stared at Robin evenly, then nodded his head.

"Coffee, if you want it. Sorry about the hour."

The Boy Wonder waved this off dismissively. "It's part of the job, Detective. Now what exactly prompted the... er, consult?"

While Cyborg and Beast Boy snagged a cup of Joe from the harried looking rookie, Raven eyed the Chaser with idle interest. A few bullet holes and shattered glass could be seen through the open door, along with police tape and various officers wandering about the interior. From this distance it was hard to tell, but several stains glimmering darkly in the clubs interior lighting suggested that something particularly unpleasant had occurred.

She forced her attention back to her leader and the detective, who were going over the details.

"-normally, you'd be right. I wouldn't call you in. Thing is, security cameras picked up somethin' interesting, and frankly, I ain't never seen nothin' like it before. I was thinkin' since you hero types run into crazy sh-, er, stuff, all the time, you might have some insight."

Robin crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. "I suppose it couldn't hurt... but exactly what kind of "crazy stuff" are we talking about here?"

The Detective nodded in the direction of the club. "Follow me. It's probably best if I just show you. That way what I think is going on here won't color your perceptions of what happened."

The group gathered together and carefully walked past the police tape. Several forensics guys and a couple of police photographers were busy taking samples and pictures.

The air stank of discharged cordite and something else... a richer, more palpable odor of sulphur, not unpleasant, but very strong.

Raven shivered oddly as the scent stirred something in her she'd long repressed. Beast Boy wrinkled his nose and scowled.

"Man... what's that stink?"

"Black Gunpowder." She and Robin murmured at approximately the same time. Robin raised an eyebrow at Raven, who crossed her arms and raised a sardonic eyebrow. Her stance dared the Boy Wonder to ask a question, but he simply frowned and refused the bait.

Beast Boy, oblivious to the tension, blurted out the obvious. "What, you mean like Yosemite Sam... that kinda gunpowder? How the hell would you know that just by smelling it?"

Robin turned to him and schooled him, not unkindly. "Batman was pretty adamant about detective work. All of the senses can be used to catch a criminal, and sometimes you don't have the luxury of a crime lab. So he used to point out different smells and then challenge me to identify them. Black powder is still used by ball and cap enthusiasts. Leaves a horrendous amount of smoke. Of course for how strong it smells in here, considering how long its had to diminish, we're talking about a ridiculous amount of firing-"

"Fifty four shots from two .44 calibre 6 cylinder revolvers, resulting in thirty goons with rap sheets longer than your arm headed to the emergency room."

Robin sucked in a surprised breath, and turned around to see a short matronly looking woman with grey streaked blonde hair and a forensics bag slung over her shoulder. A unlit cigarette rested loosely between her lips. She looked very professional, and had she worn any make-up, would have been considered very attractive. As it was, she just looked extremely tired and more than a little irritated. Robin had some experience with forensics team leaders, and she probably looked upon their encroachment of the crime scene as an invasion of her territory. Anyone without forensics training was at best a tourist and at worst a bumbling moron with a single purpose; contaminating potential evidence.

Robin looked skeptical. Raven had gone very still, staring at the Matronly woman with something akin to disbelief on her face.

Robin shook his head slowly as though he'd done a quick calculation in his head. "That's impossible. Two men with six-shooters couldn't possibly get off fifty four shots in the course of a single gun fight, especially facing off against a bunch of thugs with uzi's." He pointed absently at several bullet holes stitched in a precise line. As though pointing out where he'd got the uzi information from.

"They'd be lucky to get off six."

Detective Washington rubbed his face. "Er... Robin, meet Jessica Whately. Jessica, meet-"

Jessica smirked. "You're wrong on two counts, kid. One, it IS possible for fifty four shots to be fired in a single gunfight, because it was done here. Second, it wasn't two shooters. It was one."

Robin put his hands on his hips. The Boy Wonder was skeptical, but he also wasn't stupid. "You seem awfully sure of yourself... so I'm assuming there's some sort of evidence to prove this."

She nodded. "Good. Open mind. I like you, kid. Hey Mike, you show him the video yet?"

"You mentioned that before. What video?" Robin raised an eyebrow.

"I was gettin' to that. First off, lets lay out the facts. 10:45 pm, a single unknown perp walks into the club..."

Robin turned slightly, giving the floor a more than cursive look. He then followed the line of bullet holes and broken glass to the walls and next tier. He shook his head. It looked like a warzone.

"The perp has a short conversation with Carlos Santiago, owner and proprietor of the Chaser... I see by your dark expression you know who I'm talking about. Good. Saves time. Anyway, Santiago was in the middle of a major drug deal with what appear to be 9 unidentified Asian males, probably Yakuza or Black Dragons. We've confiscated over twenty kilos of uncut cocaine and five kilos of heroin, along with over (Author's Note: I've done a little research on this, and prices may vary by location, however I'm pretty confident that that's a good figure. If you know any drug dealers I'm sure you can school me, but I try to avoid people like that) 1.5 million dollars in cash. Either way, looks like Santiago was making a bid for the big time. In steps our unknown gunman, who promptly begins a firefight with 38 hardened criminals armed with automatic weapons. Two minutes later, he's the only one standing. Thirty thugs go to the emergency room, eight go to the morgue. He lets the unidentified asian males leave without a scratch, in fact, one of them bows to him, then he assaults Mr. Santiago, polices his brass, and vanishes... at least according to Mr. Santiago."

He snorted, looking grimly amused. "Not that Mr. Santiago is the most reliable witness at the moment. They had to sedate him pretty heavily to get anything coherent out of him."

Robin let out a long breath and walks into the club dance floor, following a strange set of tracks in the spilled blood. He shakes his head.

"Hobnailed boots, black powder revolvers... what the hell are we dealing with here?"

Washington jerked his head towards the stairwell discretely leading up to the next floor. "Come on. You should just watch the video. A lot of this makes a helluva lot more sense when you can watch what this guy does."

Robin nodded. "Come on team. Let's go." The rest of the Titans nodded. Raven jerked slightly out of the reverie she was in and followed quickly, her eyes strangely troubled. Starfire looked at her curiously.

"Are you troubled, friend Raven?" She asked curiously.

Raven shook her head slowly, looking distractedly away. "I'm fine, Star. Just a little unnerved at all the violence."

Starfire nodded sympathetically. "Indeed, friend. I am saddened by this unnecessary shedding of internal fluids, and eight people ceased? A tragedy most certainly."

Raven nodded solemnly, continuing to look troubled. The rest of the short walk up the stairs finished in silence. Detective Washington argued quietly with a technician for a few minutes, then finally got on the huge security system Santiago had set up. He fiddled with the mouse, obviously one of those old-fashioned officers unused to computers except on a purely casual basis, then managed to open the file on the station computer log and click the play button.

"This is before anything goes down. You see Santiago and the rest of his guys milling around, then..."

Nine individuals in sleek black suits show up carrying several brief cases. Santiago steps up to them and extends his arms out wide as though welcoming them into his house. The leader of the black suited individuals bows shortly, and Santiago gestures towards the booth with his beringed hand. The leader looks slightly uncomfortable and raises a hand in a negative gesture. Santiago shrugs and seats himself as though he hasn't a care in the world. A conversation takes place, but the cameras aren't rigged for sound, which would have been useless in a loud night club anyway.

Washington paused the footage and gestured to the upper right monitor. "Then things get a little weird. Watch the upper right corner of the room, camera three. We missed it the first time, but there's something you should see."

An individual slips into the room unobtrusively, walking at a sedate pace towards the wall of the establishment. He stands almost shoulder to shoulder with one of the goons standing guard, and the goon never moves an inch, even though at one point he glances right at the figure. The camera angle isn't terribly good, so only the lower part of the figure can be seen, and what is there is covered in a blue robe or cloak of some sort. Boots with external metal toes peek out from under the cloak.

Raven stared at this transfixed, but her position at the back of the crowd of Titans caused this to go unnoticed.

Washington paused it again and pointed at the figure. "See at first we thought maybe he was expected... some sort of VIP or personal bodyguard... because they look right at him but don't react. Keep watching."

The figure strides into the center of the dancefloor. It is now apparent that he is wearing some sort of dark blue cloak. The sex of the figure is difficult to discern because of the cloak, but something about the stride and the fact that the figure is tall and lean but muscled, with a particularly broad chest suggests masculinity. The hands are at the hips under the cloak. Pausing in the center of the room, right in the midst of the black suited men and the guards, he eases his hands off of his hips. The movement of his arms causes the cloak to fall open and the figure pulls his arms back and flexes his fingers slowly in a practiced gesture until the cloak rests behind a pair of holsters secured at the figure's hips. It was now obvious that this individual is male. The chest is covered in black leather, and the hands covered in leather gloves, no... too thick to be gloves. Gauntlets. Light twinkles from rows and rows of sequins, no... brass studs? No... bullets... rows and rows of bullets. A pair of gunbelts with more bullets crisscrossed at the waist and the two large silvery revolvers complete the picture. One of the gauntlets is black, the other... red?

Raven hissed and forced her way closer to the monitor. "Pause it! Pause it right now!"

Washington paused it and looked at the normally withdrawn and quiet teen in surprise. The rest of her team looked at her in gaped mouthed surprise.

"Rae? What's up?" Cyborg rumbled, sounding concerned.

"Yeah, what's going on? You know this guy?" Beast Boy looked curious and worried at the same time.

Raven said nothing, she simply stared at the image frozen on the screen intently, her expression one of muted shock and some small amount of pain... even a small amount of fear. So many emotions on the normally emotionless face caused the Titans to stare at one another uneasily, then watch her in quiet confusion.

The frozen figure is caught in a subtle forward tilted stance, his weight planted firmly on his left leg, foot at a slight forty five degree angle his right leg forward slightly. The tilt of the head and the angle of the camera allows some perspective into the hood, but the only thing visible are the shadowed hollows of the eyes... the eye color is light but due to the shadows could be grey, green, or blue. The hood covers any hair. A fine patrician nose, and then a concealing bandanna or scarf of the same color as the cloak rests over the mouth.

She eased back into her calm demeanor and let out a deep breath. "Sorry... keep... keep going."

Detective Washington raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He pressed play.

The action continues. Almost immediately the thugs react as though the stranger had suddenly appeared in their midst. Santiago seems to have expected the figure from the set of his features, but the asian males do not. Neither of the two groups expected the gunman to appear in their midst.

Beast Boy shook his head. "It's like... it's like they couldn't see him until he wanted them to."

Detective Washington nodded. "We got that impression as well. Thing is, there were some of Santiago's security eggheads upstairs when we got here... they were afraid to leave... and they said that there were no images of the gunman until he just appeared right in the middle of them."

Cyborg frowned. "The camera doesn't lie... and we can clearly see him right now."

Robin nodded. "Yeah, but maybe the eyes lie... maybe he was doing something that made everybody ignore him, even the people watching the surveillance video, until he wanted to be seen. Until he was ready. If he's a strong enough psionic, he might be able to pull it off, but then why the guns? He could have just had them all surrender peacefully."

Raven was still staring at the video intently.

A conversation occurs between Santiago and the gunman. Santiago makes a dismissive gesture and jerks his hand in a way that seems to speak of finality. Several of his goons reached for or raised their weapons.

A sudden blur of motion and several bright flashes of fire from the gunman's vicinity, followed by a swirl of cloak and then the figure is hidden behind a billowing, swirling cloud of smoke.

Beast Boy blinked. "What the hell happened?"

Detective Washington paused it, rewound the action, and looked at them all. "That's about what I said when I first saw it. He just seems to disappear in the middle of smoke and flashing lights. Well check this out. I'm going to advance it frame by frame."

He began to do so, advancing the footage nanosecond by nanosecond. Santiago's security system was state of the art, and even so, there were obvious jumps in the gunman's movement, as though he were moving too fast for the video to catch him smoothly.

The gunman reaches down and crossdraws both revolvers, spinning them both in an insanely fast spin that would have been instantly recognized by any Western enthusiast. He spreads his arms out firing three times with each revolver. This explained the sudden flashes of light as well as the cloud of smoke. The figure then bends low to the ground, showing remarkable flexibility, and begans to spin, his guns going behind his back still pointed in their original direction but now upside down. Both guns flare simultaneously, and then the gunman completes his spin. His hands cross, the fingers do something too fast for the eye to follow, and then several small objects began to drop out from between the gunman's fingers.

Robin narrowed his eyes. "That shouldn't be possible... no one's that fast."

Beast Boy looked at him. "What do you mean?"

Robin jerked his head at the still image of the gunman, his hands still crossed. "He's palming shells from the loops on the backs of his hands and his wrists, then somehow, he's pulling out spent casings and getting new bullets into the revolvers as he crosses hių hands while advancing the cylinder to fire. Some old fashioned revolvers could be reloaded without breaking the weapon open, but eject, reload, and fire at the same time?"

Cyborg looked uneasy. "Well... obvious he's doing it somehow... so it IS possible."

Starfire blinked. "I do not understand why this seems so unlikely, friend Robin. Surely it is no less improbable than someone who can walk through walls, or change into cute animals?"

Robin couldn't exactly argue with that. Still, there was just something wrong with this whole picture. There was an artistry to the gunfighter's movements, like a martial art or a dance, and if there was one thing that Bruce had taught him, it was that there was nothing beautiful or artistic about guns. Perhaps the fate of his parents had left him a bit prejudiced, but Bruce was convinced that guns were the weapons of cowards and criminals. He'd driven that message home quite clearly in his young charge.

To a certain extent, Robin shared that prejudice. To see someone wield them so adeptly... it made him more than a little angry.

Beast Boy snapped his fingers. "Dude, he moves like he's in The Matrix."

Cyborg rolled his eyes. "Duh! I was more thinking Equilibrium, actually..."

"Hey yeah! That was cool when-"

"Shut up you two." Robin cut in, silencing the pair. "Keep going, Detective."

The Detective sighed. "That's just it, there ain't a whole lot more to show. About this time, the smoke gets so thick you can't see a damn thing, just some flashes and bangs. You don't really see what's going on until after the smoke clears up a bit."

The Detective advanced the video about two minutes.

The smoke is so thick it is like a white fog cloud in the club. Slowly, details can be seen. Santiago sits stunned in his booth, gun in hand, trying to penetrate the smoke. He is obviously agitated, his gun snapping randomly about the room. Several of his men writhe and cough on the floor in obvious pain. A faint shadow moves slowly to one of the bodies lying prone. It bends close to the man and does something near his neck, then there is some confused movement in which the shadowy figure does something to the body. After a moment, the figure looks up suddenly in Santiago's direction. The figure draws and points a revolver at Santiago's direction and slowly cocks back the hammer. Santiago drops his gun and the figure releases the hammer slowly and reholsteres the weapon.

Starfire looked slightly disturbed. "What was he doing to that man on the ground?"

Detective Washington sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "That's just it... remember how I said that thirty men were injured and went to the hospital, and eight went to the morgue?"

The team nodded.

"Well, preliminary ballistics is a bit confused, because there was a lot, and I mean A LOT of firing going on, but since the calibre and materials used to make the assailants bullets is so different from Santiago's, we're pretty sure that our mystery gunman here didn't kill any of those eight. All of his shots were nonlethal take down shots... shoulders, legs, kneecaps, elbows, hands. The guy on the ground was bleeding to death, and well... when we found him, he had a tourniquet tied on his arm to stop the bleeding. The eight men who died were killed by automatic weapons. Caught in their own crossfire."

Robin started slightly, then looked at Beast Boy and Cyborg.

Starfire frowned, looking a bit confused. Raven continued to watch the video play out.

The gunman moves through the smoke, his cloak tattered and ragged from the numerous amount of bullets that had passed near him. Other than that, he appears completely unmarked. He pauses near where the nine asian men are still standing, their faces stunned and noticably pale. A brief conversation takes place. After a few moments, one of them tentatively bows to him, then they all quickly and without looking back flee the building.

They leave their money behind.

Detective Washington frowned. "This is what we're confused about. At first we thought this guy was some kinda new vigilante. Thing is, he takes down all these thugs, then he just lets the Yakuza or whatever walk. One of them even bows to him. That's why we think there might be some kinda connection-"

"They never drew their weapons." Raven said quietly.

The Detective looked at her. "Huh?"

The rest of the Titans also looked at their quiet member. She was still staring at the video, looking pale... well, paler than usual.

Robin nodded decisively as though her words sparked his own conclusion and he explained.

"He let them go because they didn't try to draw their weapons. If they had tried to defend themselves he would have shot them as well. Those are Yakuza... they aren't wearing the black bandannas that Black Dragons wear and they're reacting culturally in line with the Japanese mindset. In line with their code of honor... this was Santiago's fight, not theirs. The bow was to acknowledge a generous and honorable opponent. The leader didn't take his eyes off of the gunman as he bowed. That wasn't deference or kow-towing, it was a show of cautious respect."

Detective Washington raised an eyebrow. "That's... a theory. Actually, that makes a lot of sense. The Black Dragons don't usually operate outside of China town themselves. They tend to use non-asian intermediaries." He sighed.

"So we ARE dealing with some kinda vigilante super hero. Great. Don't you guys have some kinda rule about going into other heroes territories or somethin'?"

Robin watched Raven carefully, but said nothing. It was obvious that she had a different understanding of the gunman's motives. It also appeared that she didn't appear to want to volunteer anymore information.

The team was silent as the video continued.

The figure advances on Santiago slowly, and a very brief exchange occurs. Then the figure slaps Santiago hard enough to draw blood from his nose. The gunman holds something under Santiago's gushing nose, then slips that into his belt. He then leaves the babbling crime lord and begins hunting across the dance floor after something on the ground.

Detective Washington nodded his head. "He's policing his brass."

At the confused look from Beast Boy he grimaced. "He's going around picking up all the spent shell casings he left on the ground from firing his weapons."

Beast Boy made an "O" of realization and nodded his head. Detective Washington continued the video.

At one point Santiago makes as if to grab for the gun on the table. In a flash, the figure points one of his revolvers at him. He doesn't even turn away from what he is doing. Obviously outmatched, Santiago collapses back into his seat and begins sobbing hysterically.

Detective Washington cut in. "About this time we get a tip from an anonymous female caller informing us of what's going down at the Chaser. Dispatch sends a squad car. The caller wasn't on the line long enough to give any real information, and she was on a pay-phone in downtown, but she sounded... well... we think she might have been from around here."

The gunman finishs policing his brass and flips one of the tables upright. He carefully sets a pair of small twinkling objects on the table, then bends his head down and puts his hands on the grips of his pistols. He then walks carefully over to the wall just across from the door and leans against it as though waiting for something. Santiago looks up and darts his face left and right, as though searching for the gunman but it is obvious from how his gaze passes right over the leaning figure that he can't see him.

"He's doing it again." Robin announced quietly.

Beast Boy and Cyborg look at one another mystified. As one they blurt out the same conclusion. "Dude... Jedi Mind Trick."

Detective Washington nodded and gave them a sardonic roll of the eyes. "Yeah. Check this out."

Eventually several police officers enter the nightclub, weapons out. They thread their way through the injured men. Santiago stands up and charges one of them in a panic, and is quickly taken down hard by two officers. They cuff his hands behind his back and one of them begins to speak to him, probably reading him his rights. Several paramedics come running in and began helping the worst of the wounded.

The figure watches all of this for several minutes, then quietly slips out the open door and into the night.

Detective Washington cut off the video. "The rest is all us. Several officers walked right by him, even looked in his direction. None of them reported seeing anything."

Robin frowned. "What were those objects he left behind?"

The Detective sighed again. "Again, this guy is a weird combination of careful and careless. He has to know there's a security system but he acts like he doesn't care. He wears gloves and hides his identity but then he just leaves shreds of his cloak all over the friggin' room. He spent a good three minutes policing all of his brass, then after he finds all of them he just leaves two of them right in plain sight. Your guess is as good as-"

Raven looked at him intently. "Can I see them?"

He blinked. "Er... sure... actually I was gonna ask you to take a look at 'em. You're the witchy one, right?"

Raven raised an eyebrow, then simply glanced down at the cloak and the leotard and said nothing.

The Detective had the grace to look embarassed. "Ahem. Right. Well, there are some symbols on the casings... nothing we've ever seen before... almost look like hieroglyphics. Thought maybe you'd be able to identify them."

She closed her eyes. "Six of them, very small, stamped around the base of the shell, and a seventh one on the back?"

The Detective blinked. "Yeah... exactly like that... how did you-"

She reached into her cloak and drew out a small metal object tarnished with age. She deftly spun the dully twinkling bit of metal in a dizzying pattern between her nimble fingers, then dropped it into the Detective's waiting palm. He turned it over in his hands and nodded, looking back at her grimly.

"This is exactly the same, only older. I can barely make out the symbols on it. How did you get this?"

She turned and looked away, her face revealing nothing.

Robin frowned. "Raven... this is part of a criminal investigation... if you know something..."

She scowled. "This isn't happening. It's impossible. It can't be what it looks like."

Starfire put a hand on Raven's shoulder but she shrugged it off, wrapping her arms around her as though she were cold. Starfire looked saddened and slightly hurt.

"Rae..." Cyborg started.

"It can't be happening because they're all dead." Raven whispered.

She turned and looked at them, her face trembling on the verge of some great emotion, but still locked in that cold mask.

"They're all dead, and it's my fault."

She faded through the wall and out of sight.

* * *

She been on top of the Tower for quite some time when she felt a presence behind her. He'd probably waited for her to get her composure, although that didn't take much for Raven. She didn't break down, not like most people did. She couldn't afford to. Still, even a small breach of composure in front of them was mortifying. 

She didn't turn, she didn't need to. Living in close proximity with them all allowed her to instantly recognizethem by their individual auras.

She hadn't had to be taught how to do that. She just could. It was one of those things her father had left her with. She could feel the concern radiating from him, but it was threaded by little spikes of suspicion as well.

Nothing her father had given her gave her much pleasure. Empathy least of all. She didn't have to meditate or chant to summon it up, she had to do it to control it. Otherwise it was always on. In Azarath that had been almost unbearable, since most of the people there either hated what she represented or feared her, and for good reason. Still, it was a plague that had hurt, and there had been no way to escape it.

A plague that had ceased when she had been taught...

No. Don't think about it.

He sat down next to her on the buildings edge and clasped his gloved hands in his lap. He didn't look at her.

"I figured you'd be up here. You always come here when-"

"I want to be alone." She finished for him. "Apparently the hint didn't stick did it?"

He sighed. A light breeze lifted his cape and stirred her cloak and she drew it closer for warmth.

"I want you to know that... you don't have to tell us anything." He said slowly.

She frowned. "You say that... but you don't mean it."

He shook his head. "I DO mean it. I know you can read me, and yeah, I DO want to know, but do you know why?"

"I might be a threat. I might bring something that would hurt your city." She said numbly.

He scowled. "I'm... WE'RE worried about you! You don't talk to anyone! Don't you trust us?"

She turned her head slightly. "It isn't a matter of me trusting you, Boy Wonder."

He sighed. "There are no charges being filed against the gunman. Detective Washington isn't happy about it, but... well, this sort of thing falls under the Vigilante Act. Since there was an obvious documented use of supernatural powers in the course of preventing a crime, even if it is the sort of crime that normally gets handled by the police, and since they intended to shoot him first, they don't really have a leg to stand on. Sure, they could try and get him on negligance for the deaths that occurred, but the DA won't touch it... he'd be laughed out of court if he even tried."

She nodded.

The mask glinted slightly as he oriented his gaze towards her profile.

"This problem isn't going away. You don't have to talk to the cops, Rae... they can't even press charges on you for withholding information, since the Hero Privacy Act protects information about vulnerablities and secret identities. You don't HAVE to tell me, but... well, I would appreciate it if you did."

She sighed and shook her head, drawing her knees up and wrapping her slender arms around them. The pose gave her a look of tired vulnerability, and Robin was dismayed to see it.

"I don't know WHO he is..." She didn't, she wouldn't even begin to guess. She didn't dare.

He nodded. "But?"

"I know what he is. Those shells were a message. The symbols stamped on them are the seven virtues of Azar. Charia, Liberi, Fronum, Induzia, Patoniti, Azaritas, Azaralita."

Robin cocked his head curiously. "Sounds like latin."

She shook her head. "Close. High Azar. English and common Azar are very close... almost identical. Latin and High Azar are even closer. Translated, the words mean Purity, Will, Self-Discipline, Diligence, Patience, Compassion, and Selflessness. Every bullet ever manufactured in Azarath had those symbols on them."

He raised an eyebrow. "That's a very odd thing to put on a deadly weapon."

She looked at him sidelong and shook her head. "Not really. Where do you think the name Parabellum for 9 millimeter rounds came from? Sic Vis Pacem Para bellum. If you want peace, prepare for war. Besides, it makes perfect sense when the only ones who use them are Holy Warriors."

He watched her carefully and she turned her face back to the city, her eyes distant.

"They called them Knights of the Red Hand. Apocryphal Knights. The Red gauntlet symbolized the blood spilled to protect Azarath. Demons were a part of every day life. The monsters who are personified by evil men in this world were real monsters there, and it took a very special kind of man to fight them. The every day folk had a different name for them, though."

"What?" He asked quietly.

"Gunslingers." She whispered.

He hesitated for a moment, then asked. "You speak in the past tense..."

She closed her eyes and shook her head. "Azarath is gone, Robin. I was the only survivor. The ONLY survivor. The demon who destroyed my home..." She stopped, her face crumpling a bit, then she shook her head and continued, though it sounded like she had originally intended to say something else. "He... wants me very badly. He destroyed Azarath to get at me, all of it. There CAN'T be a Gunslinger here. They wouldn't have allowed Azarath to be destroyed, not while they could still fight."

Her eyes opened, but she saw nothing, she was looking beyond.

"He never would have given up..." She whispered.

She started, as though she'd revealed a little too much with her musings. He didn't press the issue. She turned to him and her face was composed, tranquil.

"Those shells were left as a message. Gunslingers in Azarath used to have rotating attachments to specific assigned territories, where they served as protectors and lawgivers. Sort of like a soldier, judge, jury, and executioner all rolled into one. They weren't incorruptable... sometimes one of them would turn bad and had to be destroyed, but they were as close as men can get. They didn't get to own property, they didn't even get to keep their original names.

"On average they lived very short lives."

She sighed. "Anyway, sometimes one of them would have to react to a situation in another's territory. When this happened, they would leave shells as a message to one another of what had happened there. One shell signifies that the Gunslinger had meted out justice, two that his guns had been fired in the line of duty."

Her gaze hardened. "Someone is mocking their dedication, Robin. Someone is aping their Order like some... some copy cat... kids didn't say I want to be a Gunslinger when I grow up, in Azarath... it was a fate that no one wanted for their children, but they still served, and never complained. That someone would..." She lapsed into silence.

"What if he's for real?"

She shook her head. "Robin, if a real Gunslinger had come here he wouldn't have just injured those men. He'd have killed them. Fighting demons doesn't leave room for mercy."

He blinked. "That's..."

She narrowed her eyes. "You didn't live there, Robin. There was no other way. Demons don't take prisoners, and if all they do is kill you, you can count yourself very very lucky."

He didn't argue, but she could tell that it didn't sit well with him. "Maybe... maybe he's being cautious because he knows this isn't Azarath."

She frowned, that hard look returning. "I told you, it isn't possible. They all died." Her voice had that flat sort of finality she used when she was having difficulty surpressing her emotions and the subject was essentially over.

He nodded, and wisely didn't press any further. "Rae... thanks. For trusting me. I know it's hard."

Her face softened and she shook her head. "I told you, it's not you I don't trust."

She looked out at the city again, as though through sheer will alone she could find the answer to this unwanted reminder of her past. He watched her for several moments, then nodded quietly and stood, dusting off his uniform.

"Get some sleep, Rae. We're all exhausted. Sleep in. That's an order."

She nodded mutely, watching him retreat. The door shut and left her alone again.

"Where were you when I needed you, Simon?" She whispered.

* * *

It had taken some time, but Simon had found an odd metal stairway that extended all the way up the side of one of the buildings in this benighted city. From far above the landscape looked magical and impossibly clean, the distance the lightening morning sky erasing the shabbier details and turning the city into a glittering jewel. The sun had not yet risen, and Simon was there to greet it. 

His cloak was a tattered mass of shredded ribbons thanks to the hail of bullets. It hung off of his lanky frame like the sail of a ship that had been through a storm. Sadly he had no garment to replace it. He'd have to find material to repair it. In addition he had not come out of the fight completely unscathed, as the four inch gash from a graze in his right arm testified. The needle and thread he would have used to repair his cloak were used for their secondary purpose, that of stitching closed his wound. He used a small amount of his alcohol used for cleaning to cleanse the wound, and his face betrayed no sign of discomfort through the operation in its entirety.

Simon was no stranger to pain.

Afterwards he stood and turned to the horizon. He was tired, dead tired, but there were certain duties that had to be attended to, that had been neglected for far too long, in his eyes.

Before Trigon had come to Azarath, the Apocryphal Knight Initiates had greeted the morning sun every day since the beginning of the Order. It was a gesture of great respect and humility, thanks for being allowed to pass through the night unharmed, and to the promise of the new day dawning.

If what Arella's shade had said was true, then no greeting had been given in ten years. There WERE no gunslinger apprentices to continue the tradition. Simon had not been an apprentice for some time, and it was not necessary for Knights to make the obsequience.

If he did not, however, no one would. So he closed his eyes and sang in the morning. Words never spoken on Earth greeted the day as it began in a strong, sure tenor. The voice was tinged with sadness, with aching loneliness and no small amount of regret, but it was there.

It could be heard. It did not break.

Some passersby looked around at the strangely echoing song, wondering at such sadness. It was a beautiful melody, and the singer was by no means untalented. All too soon it was done, and he allowed the morning to turn to silence once again.

He sat down heavily in the white gravel and leaned his back against a metal ventilation fan case. Carefully, he removed the crystal vial filled with Santiago's blood from his gunbelt and allowed it to drip in a steady stream onto his red gauntlet. The blood did not spill over the edges of his palm, instead lying in a strange splash across his gauntlet as though the crimson leather would not release it. After the blood pooled a bit on his palm, he unholstered his right pistol with his other hand and laid it reverently onto a soft cloth he'd laid out for just such a purpose. Unlike most Gunslingers his pistols had no names, for when he had first laid hands upon them, they had kept their own council. The spirits of those Gunslingers and Spirit Caste who passed on granted their names to most initiate's guns at the time when the initiate first held them. It was decided that the guns had had some special purpose in remaining unbound.

Still, the guns were the seat of his power, forged of his own trials and intricately bound to his life. They were tied to the Veils, to the Mental Fields, and sometimes glimpses could be caught of the Beyond. What was, what could have been, what is, and what will be were all connected to the Beyond.

Gunslingers had long known how to draw these glimpses out. They were sensative to Omens. The guns always demanded a price however. Simon felt the blood of a Tyrant, brought to justice and broken of his power in his own house, would suffice. It wasn't the lifeblood of a Tyrant, but he wasn't asking a terribly complicated or difficult question.

He turned over the gauntlet and allowed the blood to spill onto the etchings of his gun. It beaded on the well oiled metal, then slowly sank into it, leaving no marks on the surface, as though the gun had drunk of the fluid. After he had finished this action he folded the cloth over the gun carefully and arranged what was left of his cloak upon the top of this. Arranging himself comfortably, he laid his head down upon the bundle, the gun underneath, and closed his eyes.

He was so exhausted it did not take long to slip into slumber.

* * *

His dream was strange, savage. 

He fought back against shadows with all of his might, but they hounded him mercilessly, their talons tearing great gaps in his flesh. Blood pulsed from a thousand wounds, and yet he felt no pain. Something cold burned in his chest, and he looked down, gasping at what he saw.

A bloody hole the size of a fist where his heart should be. He looked up with sudden, shock at a cloaked figure that descended before him, slender, exotic... the curves beneath the all concealing cloak were feminine, no the essence of femininity, and he felt himself drawn to her. He advanced against his will, drawn with terrifying certainty like a moth to a flame.

She looked up, her four gleamng red eyes like embers the darkness, then a gleaming, seductive and yet sinister smile. The figure was impossibly tall, improbably thin... and yet it was all he could do to blink, he could not tear his eyes from her form.

He collapsed onto his knees before her, not out of weakness but as a sheer act of will, forcing his treacherous legs out from under himself.

He began to crawl. Before her, he had no shame.

"Is this... what you wanted?" He whispered hoarsely.

"Is this what YOU wanted?" Her voice was life itself. It mocked him, but gently. Not unkindly.

She raised her fist and within it was a strangely shaped stone of some sort. It was oval, slightly larger than her pale hand, cupped gently. Fluid black in the dim light that surrounded her pulsed from it.

He realized that it was alive... that it was a heart.

"No..."

She lowered her hand and it disappeared into her cloak. "Finders keepers."

A whistling sound, and then a gleaming length of steel slammed into the earth before him, a longsword of the sort that the old Knights of Azarath would have used. He gripped the hilt and pulled, but he could not remove it from the ground. Finally with all of his might he heaved, and the sudden release of tension threw him onto his back, staring up at her shadow, and before it...

The sword remained in the ground, the hilt having snapped loose leaving the crossguard still attached to the blade. The light threw the sword into a shadowy silhouette, and yet he could see her clearly.

The light emanated from her.

"Where were you when I needed you, Simon?" She whispered playfully, and yet there was an undertone of pain, loss and betrayal in her voice.

He knew who the dark figure was then.

She had her father's eyes.

He lifted his head to the dirty grey sky and howled.

* * *


End file.
